In The Land of the Dead
by Flaming Trails
Summary: Side Story in The Forgotten Vows Verse. We all end up the remains of the day. . .but the Liddells would have preferred not ending up such by way of a house fire. Now there's adjusting to do, mysteries to solve, and for one of the members, a curious new friend to make.
1. Newly Arrived

**In The Land of the Dead**

A Corpse Bride/ "Alice: Madness Returns" Fanfiction

By Flaming Trails

**Chapter 1**

November 6th, 1863

Oxford, England, Land of the Dead

4:32 A.M.

The first thing Arthur Liddell noticed when he opened his eyes was that the house did not appear to be on fire anymore. Dirty and stinking of smoke, to be sure, but at the very least, not on fire. _Ah – I guess the fire brigade finally made an appearance,_ he thought muzzily. _About time. I was rather tired of risking life and limb._

He lay where he was for a moment, getting his thoughts together. What had happened? Everything seemed to be connecting slower than normal. . .he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his scalp roughly to encourage brain activity. The last thing he remembered was licking flames and choking heat. . .smoke cascading down into his lungs and panic welling up from his gut. . .a mad, desperate sprint to save the ones he loved the most. . .and then a horrendous cracking from above, and Lorina screaming as part of the ceiling came crashing –

_Lorina! _Where was she? Was she hurt?! And oh God, the girls! What had happened to them?! Lizzie had been trapped in her room, that much he recalled, and Alice – she'd been crying for them from hers, stumbling after them in the hall. . .his head was still a muddle, but he thought he'd managed to call out to her, tell her to save herself, before everything had gone black. Had she done so? Or was his little girl –

He scrambled to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. He was standing in his and Lorina's bedroom, right in front of their nightstand. _That's right – I was trying to find the spare key to Lizzie's room,_ he nodded, rubbing his eyes. He and Lorina had raced to wake her once they'd smelled the smoke so they could escape as a family, but her door had been locked, and she hadn't answered their cries to open it. In a panic they'd rushed back to their room to find the set of duplicate keys Arthur had hidden away, their lungs burning with every step. . .he'd torn open the drawer while Lorina had started grabbing blankets to make a rope. . .and then – then one of the beams that held up the attic had snapped –

Slowly, not sure if he wanted to know or not, Arthur turned around. Yes, the heavy oak beam was lying in their bedroom, sporting nasty scorch marks along the broken end. However, Lorina was not under it. Instead, she was prone on the floor about a foot away, as if she'd fainted from the shock. Relief filled Arthur's heart. "Lorina!" he cried, starting toward her.

And then stopped. Something was wrong. He stared at the limp figure of his wife in her nightclothes. She was – almost the same as when he'd seen her last, her terrified face glimpsed through the haze of cinders and smoke. Her red hair lay in a wild halo about her head, and her nightgown was charred at the hem, but that was only to be expected from the horrors they'd so recently endured. No, what had stopped him short was the fact that her skin –

had turned blue.

A surprisingly bright and cheerful blue, in fact. For a moment, Arthur wondered if she was choking, but then dismissed the notion. No amount of trouble breathing turned you this particular shade of blue – especially not all over your body. So what was behind this mysterious change of pigment? Burned skin was red or – in the worst cases – black, so it couldn't be damage from the fire. . . was it fallen paint? But their ceiling wasn't blue. . . . He reached out a hand.

His hand was blue too.

Before Arthur could spend too much time staring at his own fingers, wondering what kind of mad joke the world was playing on them, Lorina groaned. "A-Arthur?" she whispered, breathless and afraid.

"Lorina!" Arthur pushed the questions jostling for attention to the back of his mind as he dropped to his wife's side. "Are you all right, my darling? Are you hurt?"

"I – I'm not in any pain. . .yes, I think I'm fine, somehow." She rolled over in his arms. "Though that's not an experience I care to repeat anytime soon! Ooof. . . ." With a slight effort, she opened her eyes.

And gasped. "Arthur? What – what happened to your face?!"

"The same that happened to yours, I think," Arthur replied, lifting one of her hands for her inspection.

Lorina gaped at the blued limb. (Which exactly matched her eye color, Arthur noted now. How peculiar.) "What – how – I thought burns turned you red?" she blurted.

"You just said you weren't in pain, so they definitely can't be burns," Arthur pointed out. "Fallen plaster, maybe?" He wiped experimentally at his arm. The blue didn't budge.

"Plaster would be white," Lorina said, turning her hand over. She winced as she caught sight of a vicious stretch of charred skin along her palm. "Oh, my poor hand. . . ." Her brow furrowed. "But why doesn't it hurt? I should wailing in agony right now, shouldn't I?"

"I'm rather glad you're not," Arthur said – then, trying to lighten the mood, he added, "And not just because you could shatter glass if you put your mind to it."

"Arthur, please, be serious! This just doesn't make any sense!" Lorina looked about the room, glaring briefly at the chunk of ceiling now blocking their way to the door. "When that beam came down, I thought we were mere seconds from death!"

Something clicked in Arthur's mind then. Before he'd blacked out in front of the nightstand, he'd been in quite a lot of pain – smoke choking his lungs, fire licking his skin, scorching metal sizzling his fingers. But now, he felt fine – much too fine for someone who'd just went through a massive house fire. In fact, he'd say he felt – rather numb. Not quite deadened of all feeling, but there was the definite sense something was missing. A few somethings, actually, as it dawned on him that his chest didn't seem to be moving as much as it had been before. . . . He slid two fingers against his neck and waited.

Nothing. The arteries and veins beneath his skin were still. A check of his wrist, just for completeness's sake, confirmed it. "Oh no. . . ."

"Arthur?"

Arthur looked down at his wife, his heart twisting in his chest. "Lorina. . .we were a few seconds from death. And now – now we're a few seconds _after_ it."

"What?" Lorina felt her own wrist. Her eyes went wide. "Oh, God. . .we're – we're d-dead?" She looked back up at him, grief, anger, and confusion fighting for control of her face. "But – if that's the case, then why on earth are we still in our house? And why are we _blue_?" She frowned at her hands. "I've never heard of a corpse turning blue before."

"I don't know," Arthur admitted, just as baffled as his wife. This certainly didn't fit any depiction of the afterlife he knew. "It's not what one expects when they – cross over, is it? Of course, I also never expected us to die in a house fire. . . ."

Lorina nodded, shuddering. "I always wanted to go quietly in my sleep, not. . . ." She rubbed her eyes. "Arthur, what's the last thing you remember? I saw the beam fall, just barely got out of the way, and then. . .well, I think a combination of smoke and shock brought me down in the end. . ."

"That's about how it went for me too," Arthur said, running crispy fingers through his hair. "The last thing I recall is pawing through that drawer trying to find Lizzie's spare key–"

One would think that, being dead, his blood would lack the ability to run cold. He and Lorina stared at each other. "LIZZIE!"

They were on their feet in moments, Lorina scrambling over the debris for the door while Arthur dashed back to the nightstand. Wrenching open the drawer that had given him so much trouble before, he tossed its contents every which way. At last, he located his older daughter's spare key, shoved near the back. Gripping it tightly in his fist, he jumped over the beam and raced into the hall.

Lorina was already at the opposite end, yanking on Lizzie's doorknob with all her might. "She's in there, Arthur!" she cried, tears glittering in her eyes. (The dead could still cry? This day simply kept getting stranger.) "I can hear her! Oh, why did she lock herself in?"

Arthur had no reply to that. The elder of his two girls openly despised locked rooms – "a prison by another name," she'd once called them. Discovering her door sealed tight during the fire had been quite the mystery. Had it been an attempt to save herself by blocking out the flames? If so, why hadn't she called out to them when they'd tried to get in? Come to think of it, wouldn't it have made more sense to find her in Alice's room, trying to save her beloved little sister? Unless – was Alice in there too? Had _she_ locked the door in childish misunderstanding of the danger? _No, that can't be, I _know _I saw her in the hall . . . ._

Arthur shook his head to clear it. He wasn't getting any answers wool-gathering like this. Motioning for his wife to stand aside, he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door clicked open, creaking on fire-warped hinges. Arthur threw it wide and stepped inside.

Elizabeth was sitting on her bed, arms wrapped around her legs, face pressed into her knees. Her shoulders shook with soft sobs. Like her parents, every inch of exposed skin was blue. Arthur lowered his eyes, unable to bear the sight. His daughter, only so recently a young lady. . . .

"Lizzie!" Lorina pushed past her husband and ran to her daughter's side. "Oh, Lizzie. . .my poor, sweet girl. . . ."

Lizzie lifted her head, revealing a blue face streaked with tears. "M-Mama?" she whispered. "P-Papa?"

Arthur's vision went watery. He blinked a few times, forcing calm. His wife and daughter needed him to be strong right now. "It's us, Lizzie," he said quietly, moving toward the bed. "I know we must look a bit strange–"

"You're dead too," Lizzie interrupted, voice choked by fresh sorrow. "He got you too. . . ."

"He?" Lorina frowned. "Lizzie, what are you – your neck!"

For a moment, Arthur was confused. What about Lizzie's neck? Then he saw them – the darker blue marks stretching along either side of his daughter's throat. They looked like bruises – bruises in the shape of fingers. And now that he was paying more attention, he realized that Lizzie wasn't burned in the slightest. He and Lorina bore their share of marks made by the fire's wrath (though not as many as he thought they should – perhaps because they'd died of smoke inhalation before the flames could really do their work?), but Lizzie's skin was unmarred, as was her nightgown. It was if she'd died _before_ their house went up in flames.

Lorina appeared to be thinking along the same lines, given the look on her face. Her fingers lightly brushed the bruises. "Lizzie," she whispered, "what happened?"

Lizzie looked away, chest heaving in needless breath. "I – he – h-he – I told him I didn't want to!" she suddenly screamed, throwing her head back. "I told him I'm not your bloody toy, and he – he took what he w-wanted anyway. . . ."

For the second time that – night? Morning? He supposed it didn't matter – Arthur's dead blood went chill. The pain in his daughter's voice, the sobbing that had greeted them, the implications of what she'd endured before death – it all pointed to one man.

Angus Bumby.

Bumby was one of Arthur's undergraduates at Oxford University, studying medicine and psychology. The young man claimed that he considered it his calling in life to help lost, broken people find their purpose in this world. Privately, Arthur thought that a large part of Bumby's interest in psychiatry was because of the prestige one got for being a doctor. The young man was one of the most arrogant people Arthur had ever met. He treated most of his classmates (and a couple of his teachers) with barely-concealed contempt, going through life firmly convinced he was the only one who knew how it all worked. Arthur had tolerated the prat at school – for all his airs, Bumby _did_ make good grades, and he did make the occasional effort at politeness, particularly toward his social betters. But outside the university's halls, Arthur had kept their interactions to a minimum – a nod if they happened to be passing in the street, the occasional word exchanged in stores, and a couple of polite invitations to the teas Arthur hosted at his house every few weeks for a handful of his students.

It was the latter that had caused all the trouble. Oh, Arthur knew he shouldn't have asked Bumby over if he didn't want his company – and he'd told his wife that he'd "rather spend an afternoon with a Barbary macaque" – but he'd considered it unfair to exclude the man. So over Bumby had come one afternoon with the other boys. And Arthur, selfishly, had more or less begged his wife and daughter to sit with him and make the experience more bearable. Lizzie hadn't wanted to attend – she'd made it her business to hate all of his undergraduates purely on principle – but had bowed to her father's wishes in the end. Oh, if he'd only known then what he knew now. . . . Bumby had spent the entire meal staring at Lizzie, mouth slightly open, not even touching his food. It was the first time since Arthur had met the boy that Bumby had let others speak without offering his own (of course superior) opinion on a subject. At the time, Arthur had just been happy to have a conversation without his student being – to put it crudely – an pain-in-the-arse. And, shamefully, he'd wondered if perhaps having a young lady to impress would inspire Bumby to improve himself. Lizzie's loathing of the Oxford students was well known – so much so that most of them didn't even bother to court her. If he wanted even the slightest chance of capturing the elder Liddell girl's affections, Bumby would have to work very hard indeed.

Well, he had worked very hard. Unfortunately, what he'd worked very hard at was _stalking_ Lizzie. Arthur had noticed his older daughter becoming a bit more reserved and anxious in the days since meeting Bumby, but he'd had no idea what was really going on until the day Alice had marched into his study and demanded that he expel the man. When he'd asked why Alice wanted him to do such a thing (from what he knew, she wasn't acquainted with Bumby beyond the occasional "hello" when they saw each other in passing), Alice had declared, "Because he's creepy and mean! He tried to follow Lizzie into the toilet once; she told me so! He won't leave her alone no matter what she does! Can't you make him go away?"

That had led to the most awkward conversation Arthur had ever had with anybody, least of all one of his beloved daughters. After some coaxing, Lizzie had confessed to him that Bumby had been following her all over Oxford, convinced she was madly in love with him and just playing hard to get. Arthur's horror upon learning that his student had indeed cornered Lizzie in the ladies' room at Waterloo Station once (fortunately, she'd managed to call the attendant before the bastard could try anything), and had made other inappropriate advances toward her besides, was indescribable. Worse, though, was what had come afterward: "I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure if you would do anything about it," she'd admitted in a small voice, fiddling with a ribbon on her skirt. "You keep going on about how someone needs to 'civilize' him, and – I thought you'd volunteer me for the job."

The moment he'd heard that, Arthur's heart had ripped in two. How could his daughter not believe he'd protect her from such a scoundrel? Suddenly all his previous thoughts about how Lizzie could get Bumby to better himself seemed cruel and unfeeling. All he'd wanted in that moment was to gather her in his arms and promise her that she'd never see him again.

Unfortunately, the absolute worst part of the whole situation was that he'd learned all this minutes before another tea to which Bumby had wrangled an invitation. Unable to turn the boy away in front of his peers (Bumby had gotten in close with one of his superiors, and the resultant scene would have caused trouble for everyone), he'd instead excused Lizzie from the tea and encouraged her to hide out in the garden or slip away to visit some friends. He'd also done everything in his power to keep Bumby in the same room as him at all times, even encouraging the man's propensity for monologuing. All for naught, sadly – after surviving the ordeal, Lizzie had begged him not to invite Bumby to tea again. It appeared that the one time he'd gotten out of Arthur's sight, claiming a need for the toilet, he'd found Lizzie coming in the back way and attempted to get a hand up her skirt. Arthur had already decided Bumby was never coming over his house again, but _that_ had made him seriously consider Alice's proposal.

Of course, he couldn't actually expel Bumby, not without putting his own position in jeopardy. He'd done everything possible to keep the bastard away from his daughter, though – enlisting the help of fellow students to keep an eye on him on-campus, making sure Lizzie never had go to anywhere alone (she'd chafed slightly at this, but reminding her that a chaperone was better than being trapped by Bumby was enough to get her to agree), and sending her, along with Lorina and Alice, out shopping in London the one time Bumby's friend had insisted the man be allowed another visit. A few of his colleagues had joked about him being paranoid, telling him that "boys will be boys," but Arthur didn't care. They hadn't seen the look in Lizzie's eyes when she'd pleaded for his help.

Bumby, naturally, had not liked the fact that he could no longer get his favorite girl alone. "She's a tease, that's what she is," Arthur had overheard him complaining to a classmate one day. "An absolutely rotten tease. All 'come hither' looks paired with cruel words. But I'll make her see sense. She can't deny me forever!" To which Arthur had shaken his head and sighed. How could someone, particularly someone studying the human mind, be so blind as to how much a woman hated him? Lizzie wasn't the sort to tease at all – on the contrary, she was almost _too_ open with her feelings, to the point where he'd had to ground her once for mouthing off to one of the other deans. Why couldn't Bumby see that? (Perhaps more accurately, why wouldn't he _let_ himself see that?)

Things had at last come to a head three days ago. Bumby had shown up at their house unannounced and begged permission to see Elizabeth, saying that he _knew_ she loved him and he just needed to get her to admit it. Hearing this man, who had tried to take unspeakable liberties with his daughter, profess unending devotion to her had been the last straw for Arthur. He'd blocked the door with his body and informed Bumby in no uncertain terms that Lizzie despised him and that he was not to come near her again – "or I don't care what your patron will do – I'll get the police involved!" Bumby had stalked away in a snit, and Arthur had thought that at last he'd won against the self-righteous prick.

Now it was clear that all he'd done was get Bumby angry enough to take what he wanted by force. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears. "Lizzie. . .my dear, dear girl. . .I'm so sorry. . . ."

"Oh, Papa, no," Lizzie pleaded, voice cracking. "It wasn't your fault. You did nothing but try to help me. I just wish I'd been able to scream when he–" She cut off, obviously not caring to give voice to just what it was Bumby had done.

"You really think he's the one who killed us?" Lorina said, brushing Lizzie's hair back from her face. "Who set the house on fire?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Lizzie replied in cold tones. "He certainly didn't mind killing _me_ when I tried to fight him off. And he told me right before just how angry he was with Papa for being 'blind to love'. . .perhaps he thought it the perfect way to get revenge on all of us."

Arthur pressed his hand to his face. "Monster," he mumbled. "And I thought the worst he could be was arrogant and deluded. . . ." He forced himself to look at his daughter. "I wish I'd had him arrested the day he tried to get his hand up your dress."

"You didn't know he'd try this," Lorina said, wrapping Lizze in a hug and motioning for him to join in. Arthur gladly obeyed, needing the comfort family would give. "Even I would've had trouble believing he'd stoop this low."

"I wouldn't have," Lizzie muttered. "But after all the precautions Papa took. . . ." She wiped her eyes roughly. "Never thought he'd go after you too before tonight. . . ."

They fell silent for a while, holding each other while mourning the loss of their lives and cursing the existence of Angus Bumby. Then Lizzie looked up. "Oh no. . .Mama – where's Alice?"

Lorina gasped, springing to her feet. "Alice! I almost forgot. . .oh, she must be so frightened! And to – to die so young. . .Arthur, what do we _tell_ her?"

Arthur, however, found confusion warring with this new influx of grief. Where _was _Alice? If there was anything he knew about his youngest, it was that she was a curious little thing. Goodness, she'd been out and about even in the middle of the fire! If she'd died with the rest of them, shouldn't she have wandered in by now, bursting with questions?

_Unless she's hiding somewhere out of fear, _he thought, his insides twisting into a knot._ Dealing with a house fire would dampen even her indomitable spirit, I'm sure. _"I'll check her room," he said, getting up and heading back into the hall. "Hopefully nothing's happened to her – besides the obvious, I mean. . . ." Letting that hang awkwardly in the air, he hurried to her door and threw it wide.

To find nothing more than a bed, toy chest, and night table.

Startled, Arthur examined the chamber. Alice's room hadn't been spared by the flames like Lizzie's had – there was some scorching on the nearest wall, and the air was heavy with the stench of smoke – but neither was it the charred mess that his and Lorina's bedroom was. Sudden hope flared up in his unbeating heart. Did that mean. . . ?

"Arthur?" Lorina called. "Is she–"

"No!" he called back. "Her room's empty!" Then he noticed something else, and a grin lit his face. "And her window's open!"

"What?!" Lizzie and Lorina appeared, rushing past him to see for themselves. The window was indeed wide open, revealing their back garden in all its dead mid-winter glory. Lorina leaned out, scanning the lawn. "Alice?"

"She couldn't have jumped," Lizzie whispered, eyes wide. "It's – she'd break a leg or her neck–"

"Maybe not in soft new snow," Arthur said, unwilling to allow his hopes to be dashed just yet. "And it's a better way out than trying to get down the stairs. You know she's a clever and plucky little girl. She'd never just sit and let herself roast!"

"I don't see her," Lorina reported, pulling her head back in with a frown. "No sign she jumped either – in fact, there's not even any snow outside. Just dead grass."

"What?" Arthur took his own look. Sure enough, all that lay beneath the sill were grey plants and dirt. "But how can that – it couldn't have melted, it was the middle of the night. . . ."

"I think that question falls under the same category as why we're blue," Lorina said. "The important thing is, she's definitely not out there."

Arthur sighed, his spirits slowly sinking. "Right. . .damn it, and I was certain – I just so wanted to believe. . . ."

"I understand, darling," Lorina whispered, rubbing his arm. "I wanted to believe too."

"But if she's not outside, then where _is_ she?" Lizzie asked, turning in a circle in the middle of the room. "Her rabbit's missing, and you know she refuses to go anywhere without that." She peeked under the bed. "And there's no sign of Dinah either. She always lets that cat sleep in her room."

"Maybe she's wandering around the house?" Lorina suggested, glancing up at her husband. "Perhaps I was wrong to think she'd be frightened. Knowing Alice, she might just consider this an adventure. She might not even realize she's–" She stopped and swallowed. "Oh, my little girl. . . ."

Arthur winced, thinking about having to explain to his younger daughter that she'd never grow as big as Lizzie now. "Let's see if we can find her," he said, patting his wife's shoulder. "I want to see how the rest of the house looks anyway. Like to know how the arse burnt the place down."

"I'm in favor of that." Lorina linked her arm with his. Arthur wrapped his free one around Lizzie, then led the way to the lower level.

The stairs proved to be a challenge, dotted all over with holes where bits and pieces of the wood had fallen or been burned out. The three carefully wound their way down, hanging into the railing tightly. After a careful jump over the missing step at the bottom, they managed to make it into the entrance hall. This area of the house had clearly gotten the brunt of the damage – in fact, a couple of walls had just collapsed, leaving chunks of fire-blackened debris scattered about in heaps. "What was it you once said about brick, Papa?" Lizzie asked, just a touch sarcastically.

"The outer walls are fine, I'm sure," Arthur said, then frowned. "Although this is making me wonder how the insides of our house are staying up. Judging by the state of the staircase, we should have been trapped upstairs – or what would have _been_ upstairs. Everything should have completely fallen in by now."

"I'm still wondering why we're in our house at all," Lorina admitted, cautiously edging her way around the remains of a support beam. "I know one can't say what the afterlife looks like for sure while you're alive, but – I never pictured just – being at home." She brushed her fingers against the wallpaper and grimaced at the soot clinging to her fingers. "Certainly never like this."

"It's like the house died with us," Lizzie commented, staring at the ash-grey ceiling. "If that makes any sense at all."

"I think sense left us the instant I saw we'd all turned blue after death," Arthur replied, shaking his head. "So – where to first?"

"The library, I think," Lizzie said. "Alice did always like looking at your photographs, Papa."

"Right." Arthur took the lead again, detouring straight through one of the missing walls to save time.

The library proved to be the worst mess of all – books reduced to piles of ash, furniture blackened almost to the point of being unrecognizable, and the stench of fire-damaged chemicals choking the air. There was no sign of Alice – but there was something of hers in the room. Lorina bent before the fireplace and picked up the broken glass of a lamp. "Her nightlight," she reported, holding it up for inspection. "Bumby must have taken it and thrown it in here to start the blaze."

Arthur gazed around the wreckage of the room. "Among all my photography equipment," he said, feeling wretched. "My incredibly _flammable_ photography equipment."

"Oh Arthur. . . ." Lorina wrapped him in a hug. "You mustn't blame yourself, dear. You could _not_ have seen this happening."

"Oh? You did," Arthur retorted, unable to look her in the eye. "'We'll all roast in our beds thanks to your father's unnatural devotion to printed paper.' Remember?"

Lorina winced. "I didn't mean anything by that. I never really thought. . .I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You and Lizzie were quite right to complain about my hobby taking over this room. I should have moved it to my study, or to the basement – or better yet, outside. Throwing the lamp in here wouldn't have caused so much damage then. We would have at least gotten the chance to escape."

"I don't know about that, Papa," Lizzie said, poking around in the fireplace. "Look – this log's blacker than the others. Perhaps it wasn't quite dead when we all went to bed?" She ran her finger along the room, as if trying to follow the path of the flames. "Ah – and here's the real culprit," she said, pointing to a pattern on the wall that looked like the remains of an explosion. "It hit the gas line. None of us had a chance after that."

"Teach me to want to save some money," Arthur grumbled.

Lorina squeezed him. "None of that," she scolded. "It was _not_ your fault, dear. It was the fault of that horrid man who – who decided to take – and _ruin_ – all our lives, including that of a _little girl_, just because–"

"Lorina, you're starting to crush me," Arthur cut in.

"What? Oh, I'm sorry," Lorina said, anger replaced by embarrassment as she hastily released him. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Arthur assured her. "I think we're a bit beyond being hurt now, don't you?" He examined his blue fingers. "Honestly, all I really felt was an increase in pressure. I've still got some sense of touch, but it seem to be fading fast."

Lorina poked at the burn on her hand. "You're right," she nodded. "That didn't even sting." She interlocked her fingers with his. "And your hand – I'm not sure if I really am feeling it, or if I just know that it's there. . . ."

"This is a very peculiar afterlife," Lizzie said, wrinkling her nose. "I suppose we should be grateful we didn't end up in Hell or the like." Her eyes hardened. "Though if any angels or the like show up and tell me that I deserve to go there for what _he_ did to me –"

"If anyone in this world, whatever it is, tries to blame you for what he did, they'll have to answer to _me_," Arthur said promptly, voice like flint.

"Father, I don't know if I'd leave enough of them to answer." Lizzie hugged herself, shuddering. "God, I can still feel his clammy hands all over me. . .I want a bath. Is it proper for the dead to have baths?"

"We'll need to see if the plumbing still works first," Lorina said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "But it does, I'll draw you one, proper or not." She bit her lip. "Lizzie, I – oh Lizzie. . . ." She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry. . . ."

"Please, Mama, don't say that," Lizzie said, hugging back. "I don't want you to blame yourself. You either, Papa. It just makes me feel worse." She sniffled. "I – I didn't really lead him on, did I? Make him think–"

"_No_, Elizabeth," Arthur interrupted, not about to let his daughter feel guilty over this. "Your feelings were quite clear, believe me. I was stunned that that man could keep up his quest in the face of your hate. Then again, I suppose someone who's not afraid to follow a woman into the loo in _public_ doesn't have much in the way of observational skills." He wrapped his arms around her back. "It wasn't your fault either, Lizzie. Don't ever believe it was your fault."

"It's hard," Lizzie whispered, burying her face in Lorina's chest. "Especially seeing what he did after he – had his way with me." A shiver wracked her body. "Why wasn't it enough to hurt me? Why did he have to drag my entire family into the bargain?" She looked up, eyes glittering with tears. "Alice is only eight years old. . . ."

Arthur let out a deep sigh. This was all wrong. He'd always heard the afterlife was a place free of regret and fears. So far, though, it had been nothing but. _Seems you were mistaken, Reverend Dodgson. This isn't at all the place you liked to talk about at length in your cards to your child friends._ "I don't know, Lizzie," he murmured. "But it's too late for what-ifs and why-sos now. What happened, happened, and now all we can do is pick up the pieces and – move on. So to speak." He pulled back. "Shall we search the rest of the house?"

"We should," Lorina nodded, releasing Lizzie. "Although I still haven't the slightest idea how we're going to explain this to Alice."

"She's smart," Lizzie said, wiping her eyes. "She's probably figured it out already. I just hope. . .did it hurt?" she asked suddenly, looking between them. "You have some nasty burns. . . ."

"It – it wasn't so bad," Arthur said, not meeting her gaze.

Lizzie leveled one of her famous flat looks at him. "Papa."

"It wasn't! Yes, all right, it did hurt some, but I think we – perished – before anything truly bad could happen," Arthur told her, fidgeting. Goodness, but it was awkward trying to discuss your own demise.

"Yes, I'm almost certain the smoke – got us before the flames did," Lorina nodded. "I'm just glad I didn't – die by falling ceiling beam. Neither of you probably would have recognized me then."

Lizzie winced. "Oh Mama, don't talk like that."

"I agree," Arthur said, trying to get the sudden parade of images of his wife crushed out of his mind. "Let's see if Alice is anywhere about."

An uncounted amount of time later (if time even existed for them now), they found themselves back in the entrance hall, having searched the remains of their home from top to bottom. Excepting Lizzie's room, there didn't seem to be a single place that the flames hadn't touched. Yet, despite the confirmation that there was nowhere their youngest could have escaped to, none of them had found any sign of Alice. It was like she'd vanished into thin air. Arthur wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, he didn't like not having all the members of his family accounted for. On the other – "Maybe she did get out," he said hopefully as they met at the bottom of the stairs. "She's the smallest and fastest of us – and she has a talent for getting herself out of trouble. And into it, admittedly. . . ." He grinned. "Remember the day she somehow got herself stuck up the tallest tree in the yard?"

"Oh yes," Lorina said, giggling. "She told me she was trying to prove to Dinah she could climb better than any cat. Took you, Mr. Dodgson, and two ladders to get her down, if I recall correctly – _and_ she wasn't sorry until I wouldn't let her have any cake at tea." Her mirth faded. "But there's no trees near her window, and I still don't see how she could have jumped. . . ."

"Maybe she's just outside," Lizzie suggested, turning her gaze to the front door. "Her and the cats – I haven't seen hide nor hair of Dinah or her kittens either. Maybe they all ran for the yard after they – woke up – and didn't want to come back in?"

"Maybe," Arthur agreed. "Suppose we should go see."

No one moved. ". . .We're all afraid to open that door, aren't we?" Lorina said at last.

"Well, we have no idea what's out there," Arthur said, rather reasonably in his opinion. "So far everything's been familiar. Once we open that door. . .who knows what could be waiting?"

"It looked like Oxford from Alice's window," Lorina said, without much conviction.

"Yes, but that was a window," Lizzie said. "This is a door."

They stared at said door for a few minutes longer, as if attempting to will it open. Finally, the tension became too much for Arthur. "Well, we can't spend all eternity inside our house," he said, walking forward and putting his hand on the knob. "We need to see what's out there." He glanced back at his wife and daughter. "Especially if we want all our family to be together again."

Lorina and Lizzie nodded, swallowing. "Be careful, Papa," Lizzie said, gripping her mother's hand like a lifeline.

"I will." Arthur took a deep, steadying breath out of habit, then flung open the door and marched out.

Outside was – well, their estate. The carefully manicured lawn, the path to the street, the smart little sign indicating whose property this was. . .it was all there. Though it was rendered in rather peculiar colors. The grass was a curious grey-blue, for one – and he was sure he hadn't chosen such a garish shade of orange for the "THE LIDDELLS." Still, it was all quite familiar. And the street looked just like it had yesterday, when they'd been breathing. Arthur had a moment to contemplate how truly odd it was that the afterlife should look so much like their living life –

And then he spotted the people walking up the road.

Well, at least, they'd _been_ people. What was approaching his house was, in truth, a quartet of rotted corpses. Walking closest to the fence was a man missing half his face, with one eye nothing but a gaping hole and his teeth exposed in a gruesome grin. Next to him was a young lady whose hands were skeletal – she too sported an empty socket, though on the opposite side from her companion. Beside her was another woman, this one missing one arm entirely – a sad stump of bone protruded from the torn shoulder of her dress, which had a rather chewed look. And bringing up the rear was an honest-to-God skeleton with no identifying features beyond a dapper red suit. Their skin – those who still had it – was as blue as Arthur's, and their clothes were both brilliantly colored and terribly ragged. Arthur gaped at them, horrified. _Good God – is that _our_ fate in this world? To rot until we're nothing but bone?_

The skeleton-hands woman suddenly pointed at the house. "Oh, look! That wasn't here yesterday!"

The group stopped and regarded the place with interest. "Looks like it was destroyed by fire," the half-faced man said, then spotted Arthur on the front porch. "And brought some new arrivals with it! Hello! Terribly sorry about what's happened to you, but welcome!"

"Hello," Arthur managed. _New arrivals? What?_

"Dean Liddell!" The one-armed lady pushed her way to the front of the group, eyes wide with shock. "I would have never expected you so soon! Poor dear, you should have gone quietly in your sleep. . .I don't suppose you remember me," she added, putting her remaining hand to her mouth. "Miss Winks? From down the lane?"

Arthur squinted at the worm-eaten face. She did look oddly familiar. . . . Then it came to him, and he gasped. "Katie Winks!" Images flashed across his memory – Katherine Winks, who'd lived down the road with her father and brother and had the rosiest cheeks in the neighborhood. One of his students, Ferarrs, had been courting her, and she'd had an acquaintance with Lorina, occasionally inviting her and the girls to tea. The poor creature had gotten pinned beneath a carriage that had tipped over and had to have her arm amputated. Shortly after, she'd fallen victim to an infection and passed away. Arthur hadn't been close to her, but he'd mourned the loss of her cheerful smiles nevertheless. "I never – I s-suppose it's good to see you again."

"Relatively speaking, you mean?" Miss Winks replied, chuckling. "It's all right. I was in shock too when I first arrived. You get over it quicker than you think."

"Katie Winks?" Lorina joined Arthur in the doorway. "Good Lord! But she died four years – um. . . ." She smiled weakly as she struggled to switch conversational gears. "How – how are you, dear?"

"Much better – although even now I still try to pick things up with the wrong arm from time to time," Miss Winks added, patting her left shoulder. "But I make do."

"Miss Winks, where on earth are we?" Arthur asked, figuring someone who'd been dead four years would have to know. "This isn't Heaven or Hell, is it?"

Miss Winks shook her head and gave him one of those grins he'd missed. "Welcome to the Land of the Dead."


	2. A Most Peculiar Afterlife

Chapter 2

November 6th, 1863

Oxford, England, Land of the Dead

6:43 A.M.

"So – it's kind of like Purgatory?"

"If that helps you to understand it, yes," Miss Winks said, her remaining hand resting on her lap. She and her friends (whom she'd introduced as Molly Gipe (the bone-hands girl), Dennis Trigger (the half-faced man), and Carlton Prince (the skeleton)) were visiting with the Liddells in what remained of the sitting room, perched haphazardly on the torched furniture. "Though there's no punishment of misdeeds. Well – no _outside_ punishment, that is. Justice is done solely by those already here, not by any God or demon we've seen yet."

Arthur shook his head wearily. This was the second time Miss Winks and her coterie had tried to explain this place to them, and he still wasn't sure he understood. From what he'd gathered so far, the Land of the Dead was a peculiar sort of mirror of the Land of the Living, with everything "Upstairs" (as Mr. Trigger had termed it) having a counterpart "Downstairs." These counterparts weren't quite the same as their living-world equivalents – wood was warped, glass was broken, decay was rampant, and everything blazed with sudden new color – but they were close enough to be familiar. And liveable, Miss Gipe had assured them – even their burnt-out shell of a house would remain standing despite the sudden lack of structural support. As for the residents, it seemed that everyone who died arrived down here at the moment of their expiration. Saintly, hellish, or totally indifferent – the Land of the Dead welcomed all. The sole exception appeared to be infants – "I've never seen anyone under the age of two," Miss Winks had said when Lorina had asked in a trembling voice about children. "I'm afraid I don't know why." Arthur couldn't even hazard a guess – it was all too baffling by half.

"So – you simply – do as you like? Just as you might have before?" Lizzie said, pursing her lips as she turned the concept over in her mind. She and her mother were dressed now – Lizzie had darted upstairs as soon as it became apparent Miss Winks and her party were staying, saying she wasn't letting any man see her in her nightgown ever again. Lorina had followed, obstinately to be polite but more probably to keep their daughter calm and comforted. Arthur hadn't bothered changing – anyone who didn't have any _flesh_ left on him probably wasn't going to be too fussed about seeing another man in his nightclothes – but he certainly hadn't begrudged the ladies their desire to be properly dressed. In fact, he was rather proud of Lizzie for not just sequestering herself in her room. To be this close to strange men so soon after she'd died. . .well, nobody could have blamed her for hiding away. As it was, she was sitting quite close to her mother, and kept shooting Mr. Trigger and Mr. Prince suspicious looks, but otherwise she appeared to be holding up admirably. _That's my girl._

"Well, up to a point," Mr. Trigger said, waggling a hand. "You can't just go hacking up anyone you don't like without just cause, even if everything goes completely numb a half-hour after arrival. And most people down here still don't hold with cheating or stealing or lying. But other than that, everything's fair game. Anything that you really wanted to do Upstairs, but were too afraid to for fear of upsetting propriety or things like that? You can do it here."

"Yes, but if you get all sorts – well, not everyone's going to want to obey that 'be nice to others' rule, are they?" Lizzie pointed out, her fingers touching the dark blue stripes on her neck. "What do you do about the utter bastards who come down here?"

"Lizzie!" Lorina gasped. "What language!"

"Oh, give it some time and you yourself might be swearing like a sailor, Mrs. Liddell," Miss Winks replied, chuckling. "And I did say that justice around here was done by the residents. Those 'utter bastards,' as you term it, tend to be punished by any victims of theirs who happen to be in the area. And even if they avoid that fate, the _truly_ awful ones don't stay very long."

"They don't?" Arthur said, leaning forward.

Miss Winks shook her head. "After a while – could be days, or even a month or two – they vanish. We've heard rumors they're sucked into the ground or dragged into a dark corner from which they never return."

The three Liddells looked at each other. "So – Hell _does_ exist?" Arthur said, wondering if it was wrong to be cheered by this news. He couldn't help it, though – he'd been starting to worry that Bumby would never receive proper punishment for his crimes. (Going to jail wasn't near enough in his opinion – not after the _depravity_ he'd visited on Lizzie. Not near enough at all.)

"I suppose so," Miss Winks said, drumming her fingers on her leg. "Heaven too – some of the nicest people around here have vanished as well. I've heard stories of people dissolving into things like flower petals and feathers once they're ready to go. Maybe that's what happens to the babies. . .any creature only a few days old couldn't possibly have sinned, and what could they do down here?" She shrugged. "I'm sorry I don't have all the answers for you – I'm still pretty new myself, honestly. But – well, I guess you could think of this place as a sort of – glorified waiting room for whatever truly comes next."

"Lovely," Lorina sighed, leaning on her hand.

"Oh, don't be like that," Miss Gipe said, her fingers clacking together as she smiled. "The Land of the Dead isn't bad in the slightest. You can have a lot of fun down here, if you let yourself."

"After all, you're already dead," Mr. Prince added with his skeletal grin. "What else is there to worry about?"

"Rot?" Arthur couldn't help pointing out, eyes traveling from Miss Gipe's hands to Mr. Trigger's skull to Mr. Prince's – everything.

The quartet fidgeted. "Well, yes, but that's just a fact of life," Mr. Prince said, rubbing his skull. "I think you go a little slower than the actual corpse Upstairs. And there's ways to retard the process even more. Potions and such."

"Yes – they even keep out the maggots," Miss Winks says, ignoring the way Lorina's and Lizzie's eyes widened in horror at the last word. "You can look newly dead for years if you like."

"Potions? Like – magic?" Lizzie said slowly, twisting up her mouth. "But magic's not re–" She stopped, staring down at her blue hands. "What am I saying – I'm dead and sitting in the burnt remains of my family home waiting to see which afterlife will have me. Why _not_ magic?"

Miss Gipe tittered. "You'll get used to it with time, dear."

"I suppose we've got no choice," Arthur said. "I don't suppose any of you could explain why we're all mysteriously blue?"

The group shrugged as one. "Haven't the slightest, I'm afraid," Mr. Prince said. "It just happens."

"Be grateful you kept your own hair color," Miss Gipe counseled. "Sometimes, with fair hair, that turns blue too."

Arthur shook his head. "This is the most peculiar afterlife I've ever seen."

"Most of us thought the same when we first arrived," Mr. Trigger said with a friendly half-smile. (Well, it was technically all smile, but Arthur wasn't sure one could really count the skeletal half.) "But you will get used to it. Just give it some time to all sink in properly."

"We know it's a lot to take in all at once," Miss Gipe nodded, her expression motherly. "Especially after you've just died." She turned her gaze to the scorch marks on the walls. "And so painfully too. . .oh, I thought my illness was bad, but this. . .what happened, if you don't mind my asking? A rogue spark from the fireplace?"

"If only," Arthur said, slumping forward. "One of my students threw a lamp among my photography chemicals, and once the oil reached the gas line. . . ."

"One of your _students_? You couldn't have been that strict a dean, could you?" Miss Winks joked.

At any other moment, Arthur might have appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood. As it was, he couldn't help hitting her with a stern glare. "I don't think the first hour after my family and I have essentially been murdered is the time for such humor."

Miss Winks winced. "My apologies – that was tasteless. I really do feel horrible for you all." Her brow wrinkled. "Though. . .is it just me, or is one of you missing?"

"Alice – we can't find her," Lorina explained, wringing her hands. "Searched the house top to bottom – not a trace. Have any of you seen her? A little girl, eight years old, long dark hair like Lizzie's, green eyes like Arthur's? In a nightgown, and almost certainly carrying a white bunny rabbit doll?"

"Possibly accompanied by a black cat and her two kittens – one also black, one white?" Lizzie added.

The four shook their heads. "Can't say we have," Mr. Prince said. "And we've been walking for quite a while today. Fortunately, that almost certainly means she's alive."

"But we don't know how she could have gotten out!" Lorina protested. "Well, all right, her window was open, but there was no sign outside that she had jumped–"

"That doesn't mean that she didn't," Miss Winks cut in. "Downstairs doesn't reflect _everything_ from Upstairs. You told us that there's supposed to be snow on the ground. If she escaped before the rest of you died and the house was reduced to rubble, any signs of it would only be shown Upstairs."

Arthur would have forgiven her a thousand jokes made at him and his death's expense for that news. "That's – that's wonderful!" he cried, a smile splitting his face. "Oh, Lorina, she _must_ have made it out!"

"Barely," Lizzie mumbled. "That's a pretty big drop, Papa."

"And I know I saw her in the hallway, Arthur," Lorina said, brushing a few unruly locks of hair back from her face. "You heard her crying out for us too, right? The fire was worst out there – she must have gotten terribly burned. We might be seeing her anyway."

"There's no guarantees," Mr. Trigger said encouragingly, though the fleshed half of his face betrayed his true concern. "Children are hardier souls than you might think. Even with all of that, she could pull through."

"I hope so," Arthur murmured, joining hands with his wife. "She doesn't deserve to die."

"Very few people do," Mr. Prince said, adjusting his tie. "But it happens, all the same. At least you'll be here to welcome her should the worst happen. Your whole family, together again."

Arthur shuddered at the thought of his miracle girl breathing her last in some cold hospital room, then waking up to her blue-faced father – or worse, a stranger with his or her flesh withering away. "Yes, well – do forgive me for saying that I hope my family remains split for a long, _long_ time."

That put a definite end to the conversation. Miss Winks and her friends took their leave shortly afterward. "Please don't worry too much," Miss Winks said at the door, shaking Arthur's hand. "I remember Alice from the tea parties. She's a tough little girl – and braver than most men I've known. I'm sure she'll be fine."

"I hope so," Arthur replied, before showing her out. Once the quartet was safely on their way, he shut the door and leaned against it. Oh, he so wanted to believe Miss Winks's words, but it was hard without being able to actually _see_ his darling little girl. Even if she was alive, Lorina was right in her estimation that Alice had to be hurt quite badly. What if she died a few days after them in some strange place and never figured out where they had gone? What if he never saw her smiling face, or heard her call him "Papa" in that sweet little voice, again? What if he spent eternity never knowing if his daughter had made it or not?

_You're panicking,_ he scolded himself, knocking his head back against the wood. _Calm down. Things would never get as bad as all that. Maybe she's due to join you soon, granted. But you know where she'd end up if that was the case – Littlemore Infirmary. It's the closest hospital to our home, and there must be a version of it down here if there's everything else in Oxford. All you need to do is make a few respectful checks for the next couple of weeks and see what happens. _He scrubbed at his face. _Just be grateful that she had the chance to escape, and that the rest of your deaths were fairly quick._

Except that was a lie and he knew it. Their deaths hadn't been quick at all. Dying from smoke inhalation was preferable to burning to death, but not by much. The terror he'd felt in his last moments, as the ceiling crashed in and the smoke overwhelmed him, was engraved on his brain. And Lizzie. . . Bumby would have never allowed his "tease's" death to be quick. Or his and Lorina's. The bastard had wanted them all to suffer. No, there was nothing to be grateful about concerning their demises – except that the pain had stopped at last.

Lizzie appeared in the hallway, biting her lip. "Are they gone?"

Arthur nodded. "How are you holding up?"

"Just glad it's over," Lizzie confessed, hugging herself again. "I – I know it's unfair of me, but having those two men so close, so soon after. . . ." She shuddered, closing her eyes. "I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't gotten the chance to change."

"I wouldn't have let them do anything," Arthur swore, trying to ignore just how hollow the words sounded. _You said that about Bumby too, and look how that turned out._

Lizzie managed a ghost of a smile. "I know, Papa. Thank you." She glanced over as Lorina came to join them. "Mother, do you think I might have that bath now? Maybe it's useless vanity, given what's going to happen to us later, but – I really do think a good scrub would make me feel better."

"Of course, dear," Lorina said, stroking Lizzie's hair. "Let's just see if the plumbing will yield up any water. . . ."

It did – disturbingly greenish water, but there was no helping that. Lorina drew the bath in the master washroom, where there was a little less fire damage. She and Arthur watched as their oldest disappeared behind the door. "Oh, Arthur," Lorina whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder. A pang went through him as he realized he couldn't feel her at all anymore, beyond the slightest notion of pressure. "Do you ever think she'll – she'll be better? That monster took so much from her. . . ."

Arthur scowled, hands clenching into unconscious fists. "He took as much as he could get from all of us. I hope he's caught quickly – I can only imagine the mischief he'll cause if he's allowed to roam free." Then he sighed, slumping. "But I don't know, Lorina. Lizzie's strong, and quite the fighter – but that. . ." he bit his lip. "It'll take time, I know that much."

Lorina nodded, slipping her arm around him. "At least she has us," she said. "Although I wish that weren't the case." She winced then grimaced. "Er, well – I think you know what I mean."

"I do," Arthur assured her, feeling another pang as he imagined the trips Lizzie would never go on, the husband she'd never have, the children she'd never raise. The grandchildren he'd never meet. "It shouldn't have ended like this for us. It shouldn't end like this for anyone."

"No, it shouldn't," Lorina agreed. "And hopefully it won't for Alice."

"Hopefully," Arthur nodded, his thoughts turning to his little girl lingering in a hospital bed, just barely clinging to life. "But she's a fighter too. She'll do her best to pull through. I just hope the world up there treats her right." He smiled sadly down at his wife. "And as for us down here. . .we'll make the best of things. Like you said – we've got each other. That'll have to be enough."

* * *

Lizzie let out a deep sigh as she slipped into the tub. God, it felt good to have a hot bath. Granted, it had been long enough that her skin wasn't registering the heat of the water – or the water itself, for that matter. She could have just as easily sat in the empty tub with her clothes on and felt exactly as she did now. But she still had her memories of soaking on long Sunday afternoons, letting all the grime and stress of the week wash away, and those were filling in the blanks of her senses quite nicely. Besides, she was almost grateful to be numb.

It meant she couldn't feel the bruises anymore.

She shuddered as she fingered her throat. She didn't want to think about _him_ – didn't want to relive what had happened mere hours earlier – but her mind refused to cooperate with her will. Even now it was dragging her back to her darkened room, with her eyes fluttering open from uneasy dreams to discover him already on top of her. . .his slimy hand slipping under her nightgown as the other muffled her screams. . .her nails raking at his flesh as he ripped her apart inside. . .his eyes filling with rage as his fingers tightened on her neck, his voice a furious snarl. . ._"You wretched _tease_, you know you wanted it! I'll silence you for good if you don't stop fighting!" _And she hadn't stopped, couldn't stop –

So he'd silenced her.

She couldn't feel the tears streaming down her cheeks, but she knew they were there. He'd broken into her home, her _home_ – home had always been her refuge, even if the monster had gotten in for tea – even after he'd cornered her in the garden – because Papa was there and he always looked after her – and he'd made her last memory of being alive one of violation, of pain. . .and then he'd decided it wasn't enough to kill her, oh no, the rest of the Liddells had to go too. . . . Her only consolation was that Alice had somehow escaped in time, and even that was poor comfort. It was only too likely that she'd join them down here soon. And even if she didn't, what kind of life now awaited the last Liddell outside the infirmary doors? Her baby sister, with the big green eyes and bright smile and boundless imagination, would be shunted into an orphanage, her spirit crushed and broken, growing up surrounded by strangers after seeing everything and everyone she loved most burn. . . .

She couldn't take this. Lizzie plunged her head under the water, needing to get away from the world for a while. She held her breath on automatic, then realized she was being silly and let the air go, watching the bubbles float up to the surface and pop. No burning in her lungs, no coldness in her limbs. . .she could stay down here as long as she liked. Good.

She curled up into a little ball on the bottom of the tub, pressing her forehead against her knees. What happened to her now? What was the plan? Were they just going to – pick up where they'd left off above? Miss Winks and her friends had implied that was more or less what people did down here while they waited for the great decision. But how could she go on like _this_? How could she just pretend like nothing had happened? She released a silent scream into the water. The afterlife wasn't supposed to be like this! She should have found herself bathed in brilliant light, or sitting on a cloud, or even roasting in the furnace of Hell! Not forced to deal with the same dull routines and social idiocy she'd had to endure all her life!

What if more people came calling, wanting to welcome the "new arrivals?" What if her parents made friends – _male_ friends? Mr. Trigger and Mr. Prince had made her twitchy enough, and they'd been nothing but pleasant. For God's sake, Mr. Prince in particular couldn't have done anything to her! Yet she'd spent their entire visit just waiting for the moment when they leapt, fighting down the urge to scream at them to get out of her house. She'd survived that encounter (if she was allowed to use that turn of phrase), but what about others? She couldn't avoid men all her afterlife – could she? Would anyone really think the worse of her for hiding in her room and never coming out –

_No, Lizzie, you can't do that,_ she scolded herself, disgusted with her cowardice. _You're acting worse than the protagonist of a gothic novel. They're not all out to get you – they really aren't. And if someone is, Papa's already promised to beat them senseless – if you can do that here. I hope you can. But you're going to be all right. Really._

Her internal voice sounded confident, but the rest of Lizzie wasn't. The memory of her violation was simply too fresh. She ran her fingers over her belly and thighs, shivering. If only she could forget the feeling of him forcing himself onto her, into her. . . . _The one good thing about being dead – at least I know for sure I can't get pregnant with the bastard's child._

She had no idea how long she remained down there, letting the water cover her like a shield. Eventually, though, she managed to uncurl herself and poke her head back up above the surface. She couldn't stay in the bath forever, as appealing as the idea sounded. There was some sort of world out there – one she needed to face. And besides, she had no idea what the water would do to her skin if she stayed in too long. Wrinkling was the least of her worries down here. Sloughing off sounded much more likely. _Maybe it would be better though. . .maybe if I weren't so pretty. . .no, Lizzie, that's letting _him_ win. . . ._

"Hello, new arrival!"

Lizzie screamed, slamming herself against the side of the tub. She whipped her head right and left, looking around frantically for the owner of the voice. Who could have gotten into the bathroom without her noticing?! There was only one high window, and it wasn't big enough for a person. . .then again, she'd thought her room was perfectly safe too. . . .

"Lizzie?" Her father's voice thundered through the door, worried with an undercurrent of anger. "Lizzie, are you all right?"

"I – I–" Her eyes fell on a large green worm with big black eyes inching along the tub's rim. Ugh, just what she needed, creepy-crawlies on top of everything else. "I t-thought I heard someone–"

"Yes, and no need to scream," the worm said, looking as affronted as something without a proper face could look. "I was only saying hello."

Lizzie stared. What the – had that really just –

"Lizzie?" her father repeated, tone growing more anxious.

"The worms down here talk," she reported, unable to take her eyes off the creature. Unthinkingly she covered herself with her arms. "You think Miss Winks would have mentioned _that_ before leaving."

"She ought to have, yes," the worm agreed, uncaring as to who exactly "Miss Winks" was. "Anyway, I was rather hoping to get a nibble."

"A nib–"

Realization hit, and with it a wave of nausea. "Oh. You're not a worm," Lizzie said, shuddering. "You're a _maggot_. It's all right, Papa," she added, glancing toward the door. "I can deal with this."

"You're sure?"

"It's only a maggot. All I have to do is smash him with something. I think I can manage that." Keeping one arm across her chest simply because it made her feel better, she began feeling around for an appropriately-heavy object.

"Here now, there's no call for that!" the maggot protested, squirming away from her. "Not like I can hurt you, miss!"

"You just asked if you could _eat_ me!" Lizzie pointed out. "Not to mention you're bothering me while I'm in the _tub_!"

"A lot of us _don't_ ask!" the maggot replied. It was funny how human he sounded – in a rather grotesque way. He had lips too, now that she was looking at him directly – deep purple things that looked pulled off a days-old corpse themselves. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice might have put it. "They just burrow in, figuring no one will notice. I figure manners is a better way not to get yanked out and flung away or crushed later on. Or forcibly ejected by that No-Rot Potion," he added, making a face (with what little material he had). "Not a fun way to leave a nice cozy hunk of flesh."

"Says you," Lizzie said, scowling. "This is my _body_. I'd like to keep it in one piece, if you don't mind. And I don't want anything entering me without my permission." _Ever, _ever_ again._

"It's going to come apart anyway," the maggot told her, inching a bit closer. "Even those potions don't work forever. It's the way of things down here. You're going to have bits of yourself fall off no matter what you do. You might as well let someone put them to good use."

"Yes, I'm sure the Land of the Living will deeply appreciate me helping to make new flies," Lizzie said, pouring on as much sarcasm as possible. "How do you talk, anyway?"

The maggot oscillated its body in a way that suggested a shrug. "Haven't the slightest. I think it's got something to do with you lot being dead – certainly can't talk to living people. You'd have to ask someone who's interested in the rules and all that. I'm just interested in getting a taste of your flesh."

"Why me?" Lizzie demanded. "And keep your eyes above the neck!"

"Because you're fresh! Fresh dead always tastes better," the maggot said, far too cheerfully for Lizzie's liking. "And you don't look as – crunchy – in spots as the people downstairs."

"Those are my parents, and you will treat them with respect," Lizzie snapped, eyes narrowed. "They died trying to help me and my sister escape a house fire. It's not their fault they're 'crunchy,' as you put it."

"Sheesh, you lot are always so sensitive about how you kicked the bucket," the maggot complained. "What happened to you, then? You don't look burnt."

Lizzie nearly told him it was none of his business, but then reconsidered. It was likely that a lot of people Downstairs would be asking how she died, either out of the same confusion as the maggot or simply to make conversation. She might as well get used to recounting the bits she felt suitable for public discourse. "Strangled beforehand," she admitted, stirring the water with a finger. "My father was a dean at Oxford University, and one of his students broke in and k-killed me for – refusing his attentions." She hunched over herself, resisting the urge to cry. "Then he threw my sister's nightlight into the library to burn the rest of my family to death. So far, it looks like my sister was the only one to escape, and even then. . . ."

"Oooh. . .I'm sorry," the maggot said – and he actually sounded as if he meant it. "Does sound like a bad way to go."

"It was," Lizzie said, her hand sliding up to her neck. "God, if I could only–"

She stopped, her fingers resting lightly over the dark blue stripes across her throat. For a long moment, she was silent. Then she reached down and extended a finger to the maggot. "You know what? Maybe we can come to some sort of temporary agreement."

"Knew you'd see sense," the maggot said, grinning as he squirmed on.

"_Temporary_," Lizzie repeated, not wanting the creature to get the wrong idea. "And only certain bits, mind. I want to keep looking like _me_ for as long as possible."

"Fair enough. Where do you want me then?"

"You can start up here," Lizzie said, putting him on her shoulder and tapping the side of her neck. "Darker blue bits first, please. And then we'll talk about – other areas."

"All right then." The maggot pressed itself up against the bruise and started nibbling. Lizzie sat as still as she could, letting him get on with things. She knew she still wanted to get some of that No-Rot Potion in her as soon as possible. Even blue and slowly rotting, she liked her body and she wanted to keep it. And the idea of something chewing on her still gave her the creeps.

But not as much as the idea that that bastard's marks would be on her flesh for most of eternity.


	3. Not-So-Welcome News

Chapter 3

November 5th, 1864

Oxford, England, Land of the Dead

4:09 P.M.

"So – it's been a year."

"Just under, if you want to be precise," Lorina corrected as she sipped her tea. "I'm almost certain we arrived here the morning of the 6th."

"That broadsheet from the _Illustrated_ we found down here said the 5th," Lizzie pointed out, nibbling her biscuit. Though she wasn't sure why she was bothering – it didn't actually taste like anything. Nothing down here did unless you let the ingredients rot enough to bring the flavor back out. _Damn numbed tongue._

"Even if it was the morning of the 6th, it's close enough to a year," Arthur declared. "Can you believe it?"

"Haven't much of a choice, Papa," Lizzie said, doing her best to keep her tone light as she rubbed the gnawed sides of her neck. Her maggot acquaintance (even after a year, she couldn't quite bring herself to call him a friend, and his suggestion of "business associate" had sounded even weirder) and some of his companions had done an excellent job in removing the bruised flesh, she had to say. A few of them had gone down now to work on the – other area. Lizzie was _extremely_ glad she couldn't feel them. It was awkward enough just _knowing_ they were there.

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Arthur said, glancing at his own rather withered hands. "Still, if this was anything that corresponded to reality, we'd have been picked nearly clean by now."

"Please, Arthur, not while we're eating," Lorina said, wrinkling her nose. "I may not need to politely excuse myself, but I'm not entirely immune to nausea yet."

"Another way in which the afterlife has not turned out as expected," Arthur replied, rolling his eyes. "I think we could have done without such nonsense after death. Though, all things considered, Miss Winks's prediction has bourne good fruit. None of us are really that unhappy down here, are we?"

Lizzie and Lorina had to smile. "It _was_ fun to try a clay pipe," Lizzie agreed. "Or, well, fun up until I inhaled and discovered my lungs don't like tobacco smoke any more than they did when they were alive."

"Hmmm – I still can't believe you snuck cigarettes under our nose, Lizzie," Lorina scolded.

"I didn't like them, so I don't think it's _that_ big a deal," Lizzie replied, folding her arms in mock anger. "Besides, _you_ told that butcher the other day that his cuts are, and I quote, 'damned awful.'"

Lorina hid her rather embarrassed grin behind her fingers. "Well, they are! And everyone else around here swears like a sailor whenever the mood takes them – I'm simply following local propriety."

"Of course you are, dear," Arthur said, winking at Lizzie. "For my part, a little over-indulgence in alcohol didn't work out too badly until I discovered I could somehow still get a hangover."

"And then you tormented the rest of us with moaning and groaning about it," Lorina agreed, shaking her head. "If you ever take such an idea into your head again, I'm hiding the whiskey."

"Fine by me – I prefer sherry anyway." Arthur took a drink of his tea. "At any rate, I think we've adapted rather well to our circumstances. We should do something to – er, 'celebrate' seems too positive a word. . .'mark the occasion,' perhaps?"

"What did you have in mind, Papa?" Lizzie asked, setting aside her biscuit. Maybe one of the maggots would like it later.

"I don't know – a walk around the neighborhood for starters? Visiting Miss Winks and her friends?"

"That sounds quite nice," Lorina said, putting down her cup. "They've been wonderful in helping us through the transition. I'm sure they'd be happy to wish us well." Her eyes flicked to her daughter. "You will be all right visiting Mr. Trigger and Mr. Prince?"

"I'll manage," Lizzie assured her, twisting her fingers in her lap. "It's been a year – the worst of the sting has gone. I can't stop myself from getting a _little_ nervous, but I've been able to carry on snatches of conversation in the past, haven't I?"

Arthur reached over the table to pat her arm. "We just don't want to force you into doing anything you don't feel ready for."

Lizzie smiled at him, putting her hand over his. "Thank you, Papa. I really do appreciate it. But – if I'm afraid of men for all the rest of my afterlife – well, _he_ wins, doesn't he?"

As if in demonstration of the bastard's continued power over them, a pall fell over the table at her comment. "I wonder if they've caught him yet," Lorina mumbled, staring down into her rather yellowish tea. "That broadsheet didn't say anything about the cause of the fire, and we haven't been able to get our hands on another good paper."

"At least Alice hasn't appeared in our version of Littlemore," Arthur said, reaching over to slip his hand into Lorina's. "Our little girl's hung on, despite everything."

That got a ghost of a smile out of his wife. "Yes – that's something to be thankful for, at least," she agreed. "I just hope whatever family she's found herself with, or will find herself with, treats her with all the love and compassion she deserves."

"They'd have better," Lizzie said in dark tones. "Otherwise I'll figure out a way to haunt them."

A sudden rapping caught everyone's attention. "Now who could that be?" Arthur asked, getting up. "Were either of you expecting visitors?

"No," Lorina said, blinking in confusion. "Lizzie?"

"When do _I_ ever have visitors?" Lizzie asked, arching an eyebrow. "We're not the only ones who know the date. . .perhaps somebody's come around to wish us a happy – death day?"

"An odd custom, but we've seen odder, to be sure," Arthur said. "Let's go see." He headed for the door, trailed by his curious wife and daughter.

Their visitor proved to be Mr. Prince, nattily attired as always. "Dean Liddell – I thought you'd like to know first thing," he greeted his host, running his fingers over his skull as he always did when nervous.

"What? What's happened?" Arthur said, instantly concerned.

"There's been a new arrival at Littlemore!"

Lizzie squeaked, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Don't tell me we just jinxed Alice!"

"No, no, not her," Mr. Prince rushed to reassure them. "But someone who was in the same ward. If you want any news on her, well, this is your best chance!"

If they wanted any news? Lizzie was sure that there was nothing more any of them had wanted during their long year dead! "This is how one celebrates a death day!" she said, grinning at her mother.

Lorina, however, was rather more reserved in her enthusiasm. "Same ward? Arthur, that implies she's been in hospital for an entire year!"

"Well, we'd already guessed she'd been badly burned during her fortunate escape," Arthur pointed out. "A year of healing is probably the norm. We can ask whoever it is once we meet them – Where's the new arrival? _Who's_ the new arrival?" he demanded, looking like he was resisting the urge to grab Mr. Prince by the shoulders.

"Her name's Susan Ashby, and she's at the Moldering Grin Café," Mr. Prince reported. "I asked her to wait there for you."

"Well then, what are _we_ waiting for?" Lizzie demanded, bouncing on her heels. "Let's go!"

"Lead on, my man," Arthur agreed. "The sooner we meet this Miss Ashby, the better my nerves will be."

Lorina wrung her hands as they started down the front path. "I do hope she has good news for us," she whispered. "I don't want to hear that our Alice is a mere sliver from death."

"A year's a long time for a living person," Mr. Prince said, tipping his head politely at her. "She must be on the mend by now. Even just knowing for sure she's alive is good news, right?"

"I suppose. . .but it's a mother's prerogative to worry."

The Moldering Grin Café was only a few blocks from the Liddell home, the Underworld mirror of a small coffee shop Upstairs. Sitting by one of the window tables was a young woman with hair the same color as her skin (_someone was a very light blonde while alive,_ Lizzie noted), sipping some toxic green brew. She waved to them as they entered. "You must be the Liddells!"

"Yes – I'm Arthur, and this is my wife Lorina and my older daughter Lizzie," Arthur said, indicating each in turn. "And you must be Miss Ashby. We're very glad to meet you."

"Likewise, though I'm sure we'd all prefer it if we were still breathing," Miss Ashby nodded. She frowned curiously at Lizzie, examining her. "You're almost an older copy of your sister," she commented. "Different eyes, but that's about it."

"Yes, it's a curious coincidence," Lorina agreed, putting her arm around her oldest's shoulders. "Didn't you once joke that you were twins born ten years apart?"

"That was one of Alice's quips, actually," Lizzie said, a fresh pang assaulting her heart as she remembered how Alice would tease strangers with that. "Please, Miss Ashby, how is she? I understand it's probably rude to pester you so soon after your death–"

"It's all right – I had a terrible lingering demise from advanced pneumonia, so I'm honestly glad to have something to take my mind off it," Miss Ashby assured her, though her expression was sad. "I just wish I had better news to give all of you."

The Liddells exchanged anxious glances. "So Alice isn't doing well?" Arthur asked, biting his lip.

"She's barely doing at all, from what I understand," Miss Ashby said, indicating for them to sit.

Lizzie frowned as she sank into a chair. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The poor child's gone catatonic, according to the doctors. She just lies there, quiet and still as – well, 'the dead' doesn't seem kind or accurate, given our current circumstances. . . ."

"Oh dear – she must have been terribly hurt by the fire," Lorina whispered, a hand to her mouth.

"She's practically ready to be displayed in the Egyptian exhibit of the British Museum," Miss Ashby confirmed with a shake of her head. "Though given what I heard on the ward, she's healing with remarkable speed, even for her young age. They say she won't even be disfigured, apart from a few scars."

"That's good to hear, at least," Arthur said, grinning at the positive news. "She always did heal fast. Barely ever got sick, either."

"That makes her going catatonic even more confusing," Lizzie said, still frowning. "Shouldn't she be trying to get up and escape every chance she gets? That's what she always did when she was confined to bed before."

"Well. . .I should clarify she isn't _always_ catatonic," Miss Ashby said, squirming in her seat. "She – screams at night. Sometimes. Quiets down when the nurses come, but – if it's not just raw animal sounds, it's things like 'why did I let them die' or 'why didn't I die with them. . . .'"

Lizzie felt her unbeating heart come close to breaking. "Oh no," she whispered, grasping her dress right above her chest. "She – she blames _herself_ for our deaths?"

"Apparently so. I guess she feels guilty about loving that cat so much."

Pain was replaced by confusion. "That cat?" Lizzie echoed, as her parents looked quizzically at each other. "You mean Dinah? What does Dinah have to do with anything?"

Miss Ashby stared at them. "Didn't your house burn down when your cat knocked over a lamp in the library?" she asked slowly.

And now it was anger's turn to come to the forefront. "No!" Lizzie cried, balling up her hands. "Angus Bumby broke in and threw Alice's nightlight into the library fireplace to punish me for being a 'tease!' Dinah had nothing to do with our deaths! Didn't the police see that?"

"There wasn't much to see – I visited your house not long after the fire, and there wasn't much left at all," Miss Ashby said, squeezing her hands together. "And I think Mr. Bumby himself said in an interview that he'd noticed the cat wasn't always careful about where she walked–"

"That _bastard_!" Lizzie slammed the table with her fist, making Miss Ashby's cup jump and splash. "I can't believe this! He's gotten away with it?! How could anyone not see – Tell me he at _least_ flunked his exams!" she demanded, eyes burning. "The medical community will be losing quite a lot of dignity and good taste if he qualifies!"

"I don't know! I'm not a friend of his!" Miss Ashby cried, grabbing her cup to save it from Lizzie's continued wrath. "I just read about in the paper, and then I got sick and ended up on Alice's ward, and – oh dear. . . ."

"What now?" Lorina asked in a pained voice.

"You're going to like this even less. . . ."

"Out with it, please," Arthur begged, grasping the edge of the table. "Talking around it is just going to upset us more, I assure you."

Miss Ashby took a deep breath to steady herself. "They're thinking of sending Alice to Rutledge Asylum."

There was a not-very-dead-at-all silence for a minute. Then Lizzie said in a high-pitched voice, "She's _eight_!"

"Nine, actually," Lorina corrected, her own voice trembling. "She – she s-still ages. . .you can't be serious. _Rutledge_?"

"I'm only going by what I've heard from the doctors who treat her," Miss Ashby replied, sighing. "And the general consensus is that, if she's not going to respond to anything and occasionally disturbs the other patients, she shouldn't be taking up a bed."

"I certainly hope they haven't actually put it like that!"

"No, no, it's more along the lines of 'she needs to be with people who can actually treat her,'" Miss Ashby said hastily, recognizing the spark of 'mother bear' in Lorina's eyes. "Which is true enough – the doctors there can't do much about a patient who's insensible to everything around her."

"But an insane asylum?" Arthur demanded. "I've heard about the things that go on in there – barbaric! And as Lizzie pointed out, she's merely a child!"

"Children _can_ go mad, I'm sorry to say," Miss Ashby said, lowering her gaze. "My own brother was taken by it, and sent away to Bedlam itself. I agree that the treatments do seem – extreme, but they're doing their best to help whoever comes through the door."

"Perhaps, but still. . .it's hard to think of your own flesh and blood having to endure leeches and cold plasters," Arthur said, then patted her hand. "Though you know that well enough, don't you? I'm very sorry about your brother."

"Thank you – he did recover, thankfully, and he's a clerk for a milliner now," Miss Ashby said, perking up slightly. "I hope he doesn't take the news of my death too poorly. . .my dear little Richard. . . ."

Lizzie shook her head violently, as if hoping to fling away all this unwanted news. "This is horrible. Bumby's slipped through the police's fingers like a snake, and Alice is locked in her own mind, blaming herself, on the verge of being committed. . .surely there's someone who can set this right. What about our nanny? She was visiting family when the house burnt down. Surely she'd lend a hand to her former charge!"

"Miss Sharpe's always been a bit hard-up for money, even with watching over you girls," Arthur said, sighing. "Half her salary always went to her sister and her brood of nieces and nephews. While I'm sure she'd love to help Alice, the real question is, can she afford to?"

"And could she take proper care of her as well?" Lorina added. "Yes, I suppose someone – catatonic – wouldn't be hard to watch over, but what if Alice wakes up while she's out? What if she has a screaming fit? What if she tries to – to join us?"

"She'd never," Lizzie said with finality. "Alice would never. Not deliberately."

"Yes, well, we never thought she'd end up catatonic blaming herself for what happened to us either," Arthur had to point out. "I don't think we can rely on what we knew about her while she was alive."

"But she – she–" Lizzie's voice broke. "She's my sister. . . ."

Miss Ashby was fidgeting in her seat again, eyes constantly flicking toward the door as if anticipating her escape. "I am sorry to have to tell you all this," she whispered. "I don't mean to cause you pain, I really don't. Mr. Prince simply said you were desperate for information on your daughter. . . ."

"Oh please, it's not your fault," Lorina rushed to reassure her. "Don't take our reactions personally. We understand you're merely the messenger. It's just – this isn't what we wanted to happen. This wasn't what was _supposed_ to happen."

"Our being dead wasn't _supposed_ to happen," Lizzie muttered, glaring at the tabletop. "But it happened all the same. Why not ruin the lives of the entire Liddell family?"

"She could still make a recovery," Miss Ashby said, trying a smile. "As I said, the doctors commented regularly on her remarkable healing skills. She just needs some time to come to grips with things, I'm sure."

"A year isn't enough?" Lizzie rubbed her eyes. "Then again, maybe it wouldn't have been enough for me either, if I'd been the one who'd lived. . . ."

"I don't think any of us would have taken it well as the only survivor," Arthur agreed. "It's only natural for Alice to go through a rough patch. With any luck, however, she'll be through it before the second anniversary and can start rebuilding her life."

"Exactly," Miss Ashby said with a firm nod. "She'll soon be warm and safe in the arms of another family who loves her just as much as you did." She drained her cup and set it down. "I really should be going – I've been meaning to track down my parents ever since I got here, and I've been informed I could reunite with my bird Hartford too."

"Don't let us keep you," Arthur said with his best attempt at a smile. "Only natural to want to find your loved ones. And welcome to the Land of the Dead, for what's it worth."

"Our apologies for not being the best company on your arrival," Lorina added.

"Please, think nothing of it. If only I could have given you better tidings. . . ." Miss Ashby sighed. "But it's only been a year. Please, remember that if nothing else. The future can hold many surprises. I thought my brother might be hopeless too."

With that, she left, waving to the man at the counter on the way out. The Liddells remained where they were, eyes uniformly glued to the table top. "Papa, did you really mean what you said just now?" Lizzie eventually asked, lifting her gaze. "About Alice recovering in another year's time?"

"I'm trying my hardest to believe it," Arthur replied, scrubbing his face with a hand. "The alternative makes me feel like finding an unoccupied grave to bury myself in for a while."

"I know just how you feel," Lorina whispered. "Oh Alice. . .catatonic in hospital, blaming herself for our deaths, on the verge of being thrown into bedlam. . .what kind of life is that? She doesn't even have the freedoms _we're_ afforded down here! Not that I _want_ her down here, but–"

"We know what you mean, Mother." Lizzie slumped across the table, burying her head in her arms. "It's not right. The only one who should have died is me."

"Lizzie?"

"I was the one 'provoking' Bumby," Lizzie elaborated, not looking up. "I was the one he choked. Why couldn't he have been content with that? Ending up down here alone would have been a small price to pay for knowing the rest of you were safe and sound!"

"Lizzie, don't talk like that," Arthur said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "What happened that night was _not_ your fault in the slightest. If that lunatic had had a single brain cell in his head he would have recognized your 'no' for what it was. If there's anyone in this family who should be blamed for all of us dying, it's me. I'm the one who insisted we lay on gas, and kept all those photography chemicals–"

"Arthur, please, we went over this a year ago," Lorina interrupted. "Your enthusiasm for photography and gas lighting was _not_ to blame. We lived with both for years before the incident and nothing ever happened. And Lizzie, please – never _ever_ blame yourself for Bumby's misdeeds. You did nothing wrong in the eyes of God or man. The fact that he's managed to escape justice is a hard blow indeed, but don't think it means that he'll get away with it forever."

"Won't he?" Lizzie said dully, still refusing to look up. "He's got everyone convinced that Dinah's to blame for our family home burning down. And if he makes it as a psychiatrist – well, he'll be rich and possibly even famous before long. He knows how to work things – he made friends with the aristocrats who helped keep the college funded, didn't he? He'll put whatever brain he has to work and live a life of peace and luxury." Her nails dug into the tabletop. "People may even _pity_ him for losing his 'true love!'"

"And what do you think happens when he eventually comes down here, where everyone knows the truth?" Lorina rejoined. "Perhaps he'll manage happiness Upstairs, but once he's Below, I don't think most of the residents will be keen to let him have an afterlife of peace and luxury."

"It won't happen soon enough," Lizzie said, finally peeking above her arm. "He'll have all those good years to sustain him, no matter what we do. It's _not fair._"

"No, it isn't," Lorina admitted, sighing. "And I wish I could change things. But we can't dwell on the past. We've made a pretty decent afterlife for ourselves down here, and I see no reason why we should let him spoil things." She leaned a little closer. "They say living well is the best revenge."

"That requires you to do actual _living_, Mother. And to do it in front of those who wronged you." Lizzie straightened up, running her fingers through her hair. "But you're right – it's not like any of us can come back to life and tell everyone the truth. All we can do is hope that Alice comes to her senses and manages to have a life of peace and luxury as well." She frowned. "I wonder if she saw Bumby at all that night. . .she can be a pretty light sleeper. . . ."

"Probably not – she would have raised an alarm if that were the case," Arthur pointed out. "She hated Bumby almost as much as you do."

"True. At least his revenge missed her." Lizzie rubbed her eyes. "I'm – I'm not really feeling up to visiting anyone now, Papa. Not even Miss Winks. Could we just go back home and find some other way to occupy ourselves?"

"Of course, darling," Arthur said, helping her up. "I'm not in the mood to see people myself anymore. I'm sure a good book or something will be much more conducive to lifting all our spirits."

"I sure hope so," Lizzie mumbled.

"_Would me and my friends promising to pick the bastard clean once he does get down here help any?"_

Lizzie started, then rolled her eyes. Trust that maggot to insert himself into conversations that didn't pertain to him. On the other hand. . . . "A little," she whispered as she and her parents exited the shop. "But you've got to start at a certain body part."

"_No problem at all, dear lady. By the by, happy anniversary. You've come a long way in a year. And I'm sure that sister of yours will be just fine."_

To her surprise, Lizzie found herself smiling a little at that. The source was unexpected, but the words were just what she'd needed. "Thanks."

"_Hey, least I can do for such an ample meal!"_

"Ample? That had better not be a crack about my weight, mister. . . ."


	4. Opposite Of A Toady

Chapter 4

July 5th, 1875

Oxford, England, Land of the Dead

2:15 P.M.

_Four months to go til the twelfth anniversary of my death._

Lizzie sighed, her eyes fixed on page 203 of Vanity Fair. She'd been sitting here in the park for at least a hour, staring at Amelia Osborne's quiet fussing over her love for her husband, and not one word of it had actually registered in her brain. _I don't know why I even bothered to bring a book,_ she thought, leaning back against the bench. _It's not like I've been able to manage any productive thought today. _

She had no idea why she was having such trouble concentrating – July 5th on its own had no meaning to her or her family. Time itself had no meaning to them anymore, really – keeping track of the passage of days was a mere formality when you were a corpse. People were prone to losing whole months down here, the Liddells included. But something about today was different. Whatever the reason, July 5th was determined to remind her that she was creeping up on twelve years Below.

Perhaps it was just the fact that she'd officially been deceased over a decade at last sinking in. Her parents had stopped acknowledging the anniversary of their death around year seven, so they'd missed doing anything special for the tenth. Not that she'd _wanted_ to do anything special. After that disastrous first year, any attempt at "celebrating" only brought back a rush of painful memories. Better to just let the date pass by in quiet obscurity. Ten years dead felt the same as nine or eleven. In fact, a lot of the corpses they'd spoken to couldn't put a precise number on how long they'd been Downstairs – everything eventually just blurred together into the same small span of eternity. Again, such counting was more for the mortal realm than theirs.

On the other hand, though, _some_ comment was probably appropriate once you passed the ten-year mark – even if it was two years late. People would wish them well regardless, she was sure, if she brought it up. _I wonder if our old neighbors Upstairs pay the date any mind nowadays, _Lizzie wondered idly. _Twelve years is sufficient time to heal any psychic wounds from our passing, I'm sure. _The Illustrated London News _certainly hasn't taken any interest in our case for quite some time. Which is annoying, as that old rag of a paper seemed our best chance to get news on Alice. . . ._

Maybe _that_ was what was bothering her about today. The sudden realization that she'd been down here longer than her little sister had been alive when they'd – parted. Coupled with the knowledge that Alice would now be older than she was. _May 4__th__ was her twentieth birthday, _Lizzie thought with a sad slump._ Two years older than I'll ever be – and we _still _have only the barest scraps of information about her condition! _

It was frustrating as hell, if she was honest with herself (and she'd always been so). Miss Ashbury's report of Alice being transferred to Rutledge had been confirmed eleven years ago by another broadsheet that had ended up Below (Lizzie had never asked how the Land of the Dead could sometimes produce an Upstairs newspaper – she assumed they were 'dead' copies of destroyed issues). But ever since then, there had been a painful silence on the subject of the last living Liddell. New arrivals in Oxford generally didn't know anything about her, and Rutledge was sufficiently far away for them not to regularly see patients who'd died on the grounds. And the one and only time they'd gone to check on things themselves, Lorina had burst into tears before she could step through the gate, and Lizzie had frozen in terror at the sight of some overly-curious dead orderlies. Arthur had ended up braving the asylum's dead counterpart alone, and his report afterward had been far from satisfactory. While the patients were cured of their madness by death, their memories of life were appropriately hazy, and few of them could offer any useful information. The only new tidbit he'd been able to dig up was that Alice still had her beloved toy rabbit: "No one's been able or willing to separate it from her. One fellow in the next cell over said he thought he heard her mutter to it once or twice, but he couldn't be sure. At any rate, the staff seem quite happy to allow her the doll." A tiny comfort to the family (and a particular relief to Lizzie, who'd bought that rabbit for Alice for her seventh birthday), but nothing that gave them any hope of eventual recovery and happiness for their missing daughter. None of them had been able to pluck up the courage for a second visit, instead contenting themselves with whatever scraps they could glean from visitors passing through. _Which probably makes us wretched family members, but I'm sure Alice would forgive us. Besides, even if she's died, I can't see her lingering around that awful building – she'd take to her heels as soon as she stopped drawing breath._

Lizzie huffed and flipped to page 204 for a change of scenery. Might as well pretend she was reading, if only to keep her hands occupied. Not like she hadn't done the same back when she was breathing, when she was mulling over something but didn't want to talk about it. Funny how little her habits had changed despite being dead. As her father was fond of saying, the predictions of Miss Winks and her friends had bourne excellent fruit indeed – after the initial shock, the Liddells had discovered that life really _did_ just go on much as it had before. People read, played games, went shopping, took walks, attended the theater, and even sometimes took jobs or attended school. They did the things they'd enjoyed while they were alive, or the things they'd always wanted to do and never had a chance to – _much like me and my clay pipe,_ Lizzie thought with a chuckle. There were no great revelations to be had, no punishments or rewards from some otherworldly authority. There were just people, and all the bad and good that came with them. The Liddells had gradually reintegrated into the community (Arthur and Lorina more than herself), and just gotten back on with all their favorite hobbies and activities (though it had taken Arthur three years before he could touch a camera). Granted, some special moments couldn't be recreated – no sun meant no quiet picnics spent hiding from the blistering rays beneath the welcoming shade of a tree, no rain or snow meant no snug days spent in the parlor watching the precipitation splash against the windowsill in between games, no proper day or night meant no lying in the yard watching the clouds or the stars. But all in all, the whole family was content enough with what had come after for them.

Except for days like today, of course, when one of them couldn't stop thinking about everything she'd lost. Lizzie sighed and glared at the page before her, wondering if she could ever focus her attention on this book again.

"Hey, mind if I sit here?"

Obviously not. Lizzie looked up to see a skeleton standing over her. He (she'd been able to discern that from the voice) wasn't one of the regular residents of the city – she was quite certain she'd remember that enormous jaw of his. She shrugged, turning her eyes back to her book. "It's a free country," she replied flippantly, hoping to squash the tiny flicker of fear that always seemed to pop up whenever she was confronted by a man. God damn it – it was just shy of twelve years! She'd let all evidence of what the bastard had done either rot or be eaten away by that maggot friend of hers (who now lived in her father, since he was letting his consumption of No-Rot slip). And there wasn't a hope of the incident being repeated down here. She shouldn't still feel even the tiniest bit nervous around men!

But she did. The urge to scream and run, to watch them every second lest they attempt something horrific on her person, was still present, though it had faded with time. She could now manage polite conversation with the majority of men in her neighborhood, and sometimes attended teas with her parents' male friends. In fact, she was friends, or something close enough to, with Mr. Prince at this point – he'd revealed he'd spent his life as a reporter, traveling all over the country in search of news before his untimely demise at the end of a murder suspect's knife. Lizzie actually quite enjoyed listening to his stories whenever he paid them a visit. But no matter what, there was always a minuscule fraction of her that was convinced the male sex (with the sole exception of her father) was out to get her. And that she must be very careful never ever to lead anyone on, otherwise one night she'd wake up once more to find them on top of her –

Lizzie shoved that line of thought into the dark cellars of her mind. She didn't want to get back into the habit of dwelling on her circumstances of her death. She'd spent far too much time thinking about it when she'd first arrived here. _They are _not_ all out to get you, Elizabeth Lorina Liddell,_ she scolded herself for what had to be the millionth time. _Especially not some large-jawed skeleton who's only said six words to you._

"Supposin' that's a yes," the skeleton said, bringing the total up to ten. Lizzie watched him out of the corner of her eye as he settled himself on the opposite side of the bench. He was one of those skeletons that didn't bother with clothes, clearly figuring there was no point with nothing to hide – although he did have a bowler hat, perched at an angle on his wide skull. The only fleshy thing remaining in his body was a single eye, coffee brown in color and looking rather loose in its socket. Beyond that, his lower jaw was still his most notable feature – it had to stick out at least half a foot from his face. Lizzie pursed her lips as she tried to imagine him with flesh. _He must have looked odd with that enormous chin. I wonder how long he's been dead? No-Rot only works for so long, and decomposition seems to speed up every time you miss a dose – as poor Mother's nose can attest to. . . ._

The skeleton caught her furtive glances. "Boring book?" he asked, leaning back against the arm of the bench.

"I'm just not much in the mood for reading," Lizzie admitted, dismissing Amelia and her wittering with a snap. "I haven't seen you around before," she added, supposing she might as well make conversation. It was the polite thing to do – and if he proved to be a scoundrel, she'd prefer to know to run sooner rather than later.

"My boys and I just blew in," the skeleton replied, tilting his head. His eye rolled into the opposite socket as he did. "We're doing a tour of the country." He held out a large, long-fingered hand. "Name's Bonejangles."

Lizzie raised an eyebrow. "Bonejangles?"

"Wasn't born with it, but it's what everybody calls me," Bonejangles said, grinning at her. Well, he couldn't help grinning at her, but Lizzie had gotten skilled enough in interpreting body tics and vocal inflections to tell what expression a skeleton actually wanted to have. "Bonejangles of the Bone Boys. We went by the Skeletones for a bit, but it just never sounded right."

Lizzie nodded and shook his hand. "Elizabeth Liddell," she introduced herself. "I take it you're a musician?"

"I am," Bonejangles said proudly, tilting his chin up. "One of the best living or dead, if I do say so."

"Really." Lizzie gave him her best deadpan look. "You'd better have proof to back that up."

"Musical connoisseur yourself?"

"I know my way around a piano, and all the compositions of the masters," Lizzie replied, looking away with her nose in the air. "And I also know how to handle braggarts."

"Sheesh – excuse me for thinkin' I have some talent," Bonejangles muttered, pushing his hat back. "All right, all right, I guess it depends on if you like our sound or not. We're playing a couple of places around here – you can stop in and see for yourself."

"Perhaps," Lizzie said, not wanting to make a commitment. There were probably a thousand better activities she could indulge in before going to see this fellow sing. He seemed the type to favor bawdy songs with lyrics just this side of obscene. _Not_ her cup of tea at all. "I'll have to see if my parents want to go with me."

"Whole family's down here?"

Lizzie glanced at him. He sounded surprised – and if her ears didn't deceive her, just a little sad. Typical reaction. "Almost – my little sister's still Upstairs. We died in a house fire, if you must know," she added, since that was almost always the second question.

"Ouch," Bonejangles said, sympathy clear in his voice. "And I thought how I went was bad."

"How did you go?" Lizzie asked, unable to help herself. It was hardly rude down here – and anyway, this "Bonejangles" didn't sound much older than she was. _Although it's hard to tell with that gravelly voice of his. And even if he is my age, doesn't mean he hasn't been dead longer than me._

"Well, I was a travelin' musician in life too," Bonejangles said, leaning forward. "Went all over the country trying to get people interested in my sound. Never had much luck, but I've never been one to give up easy. I was headed home after a couple months on the road, and while ridin' through the woods, a storm blew up. Thought I could just ride it out – rain never bothered me – but it turned out to be a nasty one, and my horse got spooked by some lightning. Threw me off and trampled me but good." He lifted his right leg and pointed out a break in the shin bone, with the back of it sticking out at a funny angle. "I was hurt bad enough that I couldn't move. Died of exposure a couple of days later."

Lizzie winced as she pictured being trapped in the middle of a forest, thirst and hunger assaulting your insides, unable to even crawl to help. "That is a horrible way to die," she agreed. She didn't know exactly how she felt about this fellow yet, but she wouldn't wish such a slow and painful death on anyone. (Except maybe Angus Bumby. And then only if she could watch.) "I'm sorry for you."

Bonejangles shrugged, his eye rattling back into the left socket. "It's been years now. I barely remember how it felt. And being dead turned out to be a lot of fun." He tipped his hat to the right a little, his smile somehow seeming to widen. "Amazin' how creative you can get without everybody breathin' all over ya about the rules."

"I do hope you don't mean like that 'Hedgehog Song' that Ogg woman down the lane likes to sing whenever she's had too much to drink," Lizzie said, rolling her eyes.

"Ain't familiar with that one, so I couldn't say."

"Oh, you'll become intimately familiar with it after a day or two. 'Had too much to drink' is the woman's natural state." Lizzie sighed. "I'm not one to say that we should continue to abide by _every_ fiddly little rule we had to while alive, but I do like to walk down the street without hearing how it's impossible to – well, do something unpleasant to that poor hedgehog."

"Ooooh, I think I know the kinda song you're talking about now," Bonejangles snickered. "Can't say I haven't sung one or two myself when I've got enough in me, but it's not what we do on stage. You're safe there."

"I would hope so," Lizzie snapped, then felt a slight pang of guilt. _Come on, Lizzie, he's just being friendly. You can grant him that courtesy in return._ She took a deep breath to compose herself. "What sort of songs do you sing?"

"They're – eh, I'm not really good at describing 'em," Bonejangles admitted. "My own style of composin'. Faster, more beats, lots of improv. A sort of–" He rapidly snapped his fingers. "Well, it ain't like anything you've ever heard, I'll bet. Always preferred stuff with lots of energy to the orchestra scene."

"Sort of like music hall tunes?" Lizzie asked, intrigued despite herself. She had nothing against classical music – she'd become quite proficient with Beethoven's compositions in life, and had learned quite a bit of Mozart, Bach, and Handel in death – but she was never one to pass up the opportunity to try something new and exciting. And Bonejangles's not-quite-an-explanation certainly piqued her curiosity. What kind of music _would_ come out of this rough-voiced man? It was easy enough to picture him on the stage, but singing? Would you even understand a word?

"I gueesss. . .we played in our fair share," Bonejangles said, waving a hand. "Like I said, it's hard to describe. You'd really gotta give it a listen to understand."

"Maybe I will," Lizzie said, with more conviction this time. "Where and when are you and your 'Bone Boys' playing first?"

"Tomorrow evenin' at eight, at The Hip Joint – that pub over on Bruised Boulevard," Bonejangles replied, tipping his head in the general direction of the street. "Natural environment for my Boys – all of us played a lot of places like it when we were alive. Hell, I help run one back in my hometown – The Ball & Socket. Hole-in-the-wall tavern, but the way the walls bounce the sound?" He formed an O with his index finger and thumb, the rest of his hand fanned wide. "Just _perfect_."

"Ah, I see. As I said, I'll have to see what my parents think of the idea, but. . . ." But she had to admit, it sounded like more fun than she'd originally thought. Even if it was in a bar. . .well, she wouldn't be going without her father, so she should be just fine so long as she stayed away from anything stronger than a glass or two of wine. _And perhaps it would do me some good to get out more. I haven't stretched my limits in a while – not since I risked visiting Mr. Prince alone two years ago. I could probably use another step outside my comfort zone. And it's a lot better than just hanging around and obsessing over my upcoming twelfth anniversary._ "Either way, I wish you all the best with your performance."

Bonejangles gave her a nod. "Much obliged, Miss Liddell."

"Oi! Bonejangles!" a voice suddenly called. Both Lizzie and Bonejangles looked up to see another skeleton standing at the edge of the park, tapping his foot impatiently. "We got practice! Come on!" the fellow continued, waving Bonejangles forward.

"I'm coming, Chauncey! God, you're just like my mother!" Bonejangles yelled back. Lizzie bit back a grin. "Jeez, you'd think we never practiced before. . . ." He rose from his seat, then tipped his hat at her. "Nice meeting ya, Miss Liddell. Thanks for the company. Hope to see you at the show!"

"It was good to meet you as well," Lizzie said, inclining her head. "And good luck with practice."

"I'm going to need it, with him fussin' about it. Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'. . . ."

Bonejangles proceeded toward his friend, yelling a few good-natured epithets about how Chauncey had missed his calling as a mother hen. Lizzie grabbed her book, stifling a giggle as the boys argued their way down the street. Well – that had been an interesting encounter. She was quite proud of herself for having such a long conversation with a male stranger. And letting him sit that close to her – not even a year ago she never would have allowed such familiarity. She still wasn't sure if she had a proper picture of his character, but – he'd seemed friendly enough. Had kept to his side, not taken any liberties, spoken to her like any other person. . .not precisely a gentleman, but better than a good number of the men she'd met. She supposed she wouldn't mind seeing him again. Or attending one of his performances. So long as her parents were there. _And I will give him this,_ she thought with a grin, finally relocating her place and settling in to read. _Whoever he is, he is definitely the opposite of an Oxford toady!_


	5. The Backstory of Bonejangles

Chapter 5

July 6th, 1875

Oxford, England, Land of the Dead

8:48 P.M.

"Funny – that's exactly what the maggot said!"

A final tinkling on the piano and a last flourish on the trombone, and The Bone Boys wrapped up their latest song. The crowd inside The Hip Joint promptly burst into applause, calling for more. Lizzie clapped just as wildly as the rest, giving the skeletons a bright grin as they took an impromptu bow. _Well, well, Mr. Bonejangles,_ she thought,_ I must admit you are indeed no braggart._

She leaned back in her seat as Bonejangles conferred with his fellows about what the next song would be. And to think she could have missed out on this thanks to misplaced annoyance and pride! She would smack her day-younger self if she could. Bonejangles and his Bone Boys were shockingly talented, especially for a pub and music hall band. His music was as hard to describe as he'd claimed, but it was overflowing with energy and enthusiasm, sweeping you up and encouraging you to dance and twirl like a madwoman – despite the fact that most of the lyrics were about things like lingering diseases and decomposition. Lizzie had even caught herself singing along with a couple of the choruses. Strange how this group could make songs about death seem so lively! But then, that was the constant contradiction of the Underworld. "What do you think of the show?" she asked her parents, sitting beside her.

"It's – peculiar. . .but I think I like it," Lorina said, smiling. "Certainly nicer than some of the other musical productions we've attended." She giggled abruptly, the sound whistling through the space where her nose once was. "Oh, Arthur, remember when you took me to that new, experimental opera during our courtship?"

"The one where the lead singer's voice kept cracking on the high notes?" Arthur said, his teeth grinning through the hole in his cheek. "And everyone kept forgetting their lines? And part of the scenery fell down and gave the actor playing Bartholomew a concussion? I don't think I'll ever forget. Not quite the sort of thing you want happening when you're taking your lady love and her chaperone out for the night."

"And it was our first time out together in public too," Lorina nodded, snickering. "The look on your face when the sun knocked that fellow flat! I'm just glad he was all right."

"Me too. Although, if he'd died, perhaps he could have joined a better opera company down here. Young man was the only one with any real talent in that production. I'm shocked the rest of them were able to secure a backer for their brief run."

"Oh, I know. This set can all easily hold their own, no matter the song. Though their lead singer does rather command the stage."

"It's that enormous jaw of his," Lizzie joked. "You can't help but stare."

"Elizabeth!"

"What? I'm quite certain he makes that sort of joke himself, given his personality."

"Maybe so, but–"

"All right, folks, ready for another?"

The three returned their attention to the stage the crowd roared its assent. "Okay, this next number was written for a friend of mine, name of Emily," Bonejangles called as the noise died down. "She went Up recently, but I don't think she'll mind me still singing it. So yeah, this one's for her." He turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Hope you're happy Up there, Emily. Hit it, boys!"

The band proceeded to do just that – literally. Lizzie giggled as Bonejangles tapped out the rhythm on his fellow band members' heads to start the music. The lot of them had been doing that all night – running fingers down ribcages, beating spines with fists, and knocking their skulls together all in service to the beat. Perhaps it was a little disturbing if you thought about it too much, but it was also very creative. Lizzie tapped her foot in time with Bonejangles's hands, waiting for the song to begin proper.

She didn't have to wait long. As the piano player took up the tune, Bonejangles launched into his chosen lyrics:

"Give me a listen, you corpses of cheer

At least those of you who still got an ear

I'll tell you a story make a skeleton cry

Of our own jubliciously lovely corpse bride!"

_What – corpse bride?_ Lizzie repeated to herself as the others took up the chorus: "Die, die, we all pass away. . . ." _Oh dear, that sounds terribly sad – not that you can tell from the music. I wonder what happened?_ She leaned forward, eager for more information. "Yes, yes, we all end up the remains of the day, get on with it. . . ."

Bonejangles winked at the crowd, did a little twirl in the middle of the stage – and then, without warning, the shadows behind him _changed_. Lizzie snapped up straight as the silhouettes of a young woman and a large-chinned man looking curiously at each other appeared on the wall. _What the – how did he do that?_ she thought, swiveling her head to see if she could spot the trick. As she did so, Bonejangles continued onward:

"Well, our girl was a beauty known for miles around,

When a mysterious stranger came into town!

He was plenty good-lookin', but down on his cash,

And our poor little baby, she fell hard and fast!

When her daddy said no, she just couldn't cope,

So our lovers came up with a plan to elope!"

Lizzie froze, her stomach giving a sudden, unpleasant lurch. _Oh no._ She watched with growing trepidation as the shadow-man kissed the hand of the shadow-woman, then caught her as she pretended to faint romantically into his arms. She had the most horrible feeling that she knew _exactly_ how this story was going to end. Perhaps not with violation and fire, but. . . . She shivered, dropping her gaze to the table in front of her. Decomposition and disease were one thing – but _murder_? How could Bonejangles make anything involving _that_ so cheerful and catchy?

A barely-sensed change in pressure and a shape looming out of the corner of her eye alerted her to the fact that her mother had leaned over and placed her hand on her back. "Do you want to go?" Lorina whispered as the band devolved into wild improvisation for a bit. "I think we've heard enough to judge his talents."

Lizzie considered the idea. Hearing about another poor girl's miserable death hadn't been on the top of her list of things to do today. . .but. . . . "I have to hear the end," she mumbled, shaking her head. "Otherwise it'll bother me all night just what happened to her. I mean, I _think_ I have a good idea, but I can't say for sure. . .and I have to see if it has a happy ending. He wouldn't take such a lighthearted tone otherwise, would he? He said that girl was a friend!"

"I think it's just his way, really," Arthur shrugged. "All his other songs were pretty cheerful as well, and their subjects weren't much better than this one."

Lizzie shrugged back. "I suppose not, but – maybe it's just me, but this seems to be stretching the bounds of good taste."

"You'll find out in a moment – looks like they're wrapping up," Lorina said, watching the stage.

The musical chaos did indeed wind to a close as her mother finished speaking. Lizzie took a deep breath and put her attention once more on the lead singer:

"So they conjured up a plan to meet late at night,

They told not a soul, kept the whole thing tight!

Now her mother's wedding dress fit like a glove –

You don't need much when you're really in love!

Except for a few things, or so I'm told,

Like the family jewels, and a satchel of gold!"

The shadows morphed again, this time showing the young shadow-woman looking left and right as she stood under the most twisted and gnarled tree Lizzie had ever seen. Lizzie swallowed and clasped her hands together. _Here it comes. . . ._

"Then next to the graveyard by the old oak tree,

On a dark foggy night at a quarter to three,

She was ready to go – but where was he?"

"And then?" Chauncey cut in.

Bonejangles peered mysteriously out from under his hat. "She waited. . . ."

"And then?" another Bone Boy asked.

One bony index finger extended toward the door. "There in the shadows, was it the man?"

"And then?" the third Boy took up the question.

Bonejangles clutched his ribcage. "Her little heart beat so loud!"

"And _then_?" chorused all three of his bandmates.

"And then, baby–" The figure of the man appeared behind the woman, looming over her like a panther over its prey. The girl turned, screamed, and then was swallowed up in a swirl of shadow. "– everything went – black."

_An aborted attempt at a scream – a final, desperate gasp for air – and then everything went black._

Lizzie lowered her eyes, fingers clenched so tight she fancied she could actually feel the strain. Oh yes – she knew exactly how that "Emily" had felt in her final moments. Trapped in a dark place, alone with a monster, and absolutely nowhere to run. . .it was the worst death imaginable. And Emily had thought she was safe too – for God's sake, she'd _loved_ her killer! Was that better or worse than falling victim to someone you loathed? Did it really matter in the end?

A bright pool of light demanded her attention, and she lifted her head to see Bonejangles sling himself over the piano, shoving his hat back from his face as he sang:

"Now when she opened her eyes, she was dead as dust,

Her jewels were missin' and her heart was bust.

So she made a vow lyin' under that tree,

That she'd wait for her true love to come set her free.

Always waiting for someone to ask for her hand–

When out of the blue comes this groooovy young man!

Who vows forever to be by her side –

And that's the story of our corpse briiiide!"

Lizzie perked up just a smidgen as the last chorus ran through the crowd. So the story _did_ have a happy ending! That at least was a relief. After such a horrible demise, Emily deserved nothing less than a long and happy afterlife with someone who loved her.

_Oh, you mean like a necrophiliac?_ a voice put in from deep inside. _That doesn't sound like the happiest of endings to me. And even if she did get what she wanted in the end, no strings attached and no breathers allowed, her murderer's still running around up there, free as a bird. Just like yours._

_Oh, shut up,_ Lizzie snarled, annoyed with herself. She just couldn't let herself believe in fairy tale endings for two seconds, could she? Why did her brain have to ruin everything? Although. . .it did bring up a good point. Had Emily actually gotten herself engaged to a living man? How on earth would such a union even work? And was it really a good idea to accept someone so willing to play husband to the dead? She groaned and grabbed at her decaying hair. Listening to the song was supposed to _stop_ her obsessing over Emily's fate. . . .

Fortunately for her nerves, it appeared that this song had been the Bonejangles' closing number. He took his final bows, wished the crowd a happy evening, then he and his Bone Boys headed for the bar. Lizzie tracked him for a minute or two, then stood up as the piano player began noodling and conversation filled the air. "I'm going to talk to him," she told her parents. "Ask him what precisely happened to his friend."

Lorina and Arthur blinked, surprised. "I would have thought you'd want to put it out of your mind first thing," Arthur admitted.

"I've got some questions about things, and – I have to make sure her story really did end happily." She twisted her hands together. "One of ours deserves to."

Her parents exchanged a pained look, but nodded. "All right, dear," Lorina said, drumming her fingers on the table. "We'll be here when you get back."

"Thank you, Mother." Lizzie picked her way through the maze of patrons to the bar, mentally rehearsing how to put her question with the least amount of offense.

Bonejangles was chatting with his bandmates about their set for tomorrow night's performance when she reached him, Chauncey taking notes as he ticked the songs off on his fingers. Lizzie waited politely for them to finish before slipping into the seat beside him. "Hello again."

Bonejangles spun his head like an owl. "Oh, hey Miss Liddell," he said, eye rolling from left to right as he turned the rest of his body to face her. "What did you think of the show?"

"Very enjoyable," Lizzie said with a smile. "I must apologize for suggesting you might be full of yourself."

Bonejangles angled his jaw in such a way that his skeletal grin became more a smirk. "Told ya so, if you don't mind me sayin'. Besides, kinda hard to be full of yourself when there's not much left to fill you up."

Lizzie chuckled. "Fair enough." She fiddled with her fingers. "I'm – rather curious about your last song, though. You said you wrote it for a friend of yours?"

"Yeah – Emily Cartwell," Bonejangles confirmed, crossing his legs as he leaned on the bar. "Poor girl died not long after I did. Let me tell you, she was a mess when she first hit Below. Must have taken her three days to stop crying." A bubbling drink slid down the varnished wood toward him, which he snagged in one large hand. "And you know how it is when you're a new arrival – _everybody_ wants to know how you died." Lizzie nodded, grimacing as she recalled all the too-friendly questions about her own demise those first few weeks. "She hated havin' to explain the whole mess, so I wrote the song – excludin' that last bit – to help her out. Know it probably came out a little too cheerful, but she liked it anyway." He tipped back the glass and poured the drink down what in life would have been his gullet, letting it splash through his ribcage. Lizzie quickly tucked her feet beneath her stool, pulling her skirt out of the way of the splattering alcohol. "Ahh, that's the ticket. . . ."

"Mmm – I was surprised to hear you put something like that to so bouncy a tune," Lizzie admitted softly, staring at the orange liquid now dripping from his bones. "What a horrific thing to happen to someone – betrayed by the one you loved, and then left to rot."

"Yeah," Bonejangles agreed, voice dark." There wasn't a one of us down in Burtonsville – that's where I'm from – who didn't want to give that Barkis arsehole what-for when we heard the story. Especially when we got to see just how sweet Emily was when she managed to stop the waterworks. Wasn't sure we'd ever get the chance, though. For the longest time, it seemed he'd gotten away with it scot-free."

Lizzie scowled as her thoughts abruptly turned back toward her own death. From what she had managed to glean from new arrivals, people _still_ thought that poor Dinah (whom they'd yet to find – oh, she hoped the cat and her kittens had escaped the blaze and lived out the rest of their days content with a new owner) had been the source of the fire that had killed her family. Not to mention she'd also received confirmation that Angus Bumby had indeed passed all his exams – with flying colors, no less. It made Lizzie's blood – whatever she had left of it – boil. How could he escape justice like that?! She could just barely forgive the firemen and morticians for missing what had happened to her – she had no idea how badly burned her actual corpse had ended up – but to not find _anything_ suspicious about that story? Especially when any _real_ friend of the family could have told them that Dinah usually slept upstairs with Alice, and that the lamp found in the library should have been up there as well? And wasn't it common knowledge that Bumby was obsessed with the older of the Liddell girls? Why would anyone _trust_ what that arsehole had to say about their demise? "Idiots, the lot of them," she growled.

"Huh?" Bonejangles tilted his head. "Hopin' you wandered off into your own head there, 'cause my friends at home definitely ain't idiots. Unless you're talking about the people Upstairs who couldn't catch Barkis, in which case pretty sure he's been using fake names."

"No, no," Lizzie said, holding up a hand. "You were right the first time – I was thinking of something else. You see–" She swallowed. Well, she'd accepted this as a risk of speaking to him. . . . "I didn't give you all the details about my death before. The house fire my family died in? Set by a deranged man whose 'affections' I'd spurned. Everything we've heard indicates he's never been caught."

"Oh. Damn." Bonejangles shook his head, eye rattling between sockets. "That's terrible. I'm sorry for you and your family."

"Thank you," Lizzie whispered, squeezing her skirts to relieve her feelings. "I'm sorry for your friend. Nobody deserves a death like that." She managed a smile. "Still, she got the husband she always wanted in the end."

Bonejangles let out a rather awkward-sounding laugh. "Eh, sort of," he said, rubbing the back of his skull. "What really happened is kinda complicated, and I can't come up with the verses to explain it proper yet."

Lizzie's stomach tied itself into a knot. Oh no – damn it, why did she even get her hopes up? She should know by now there was never truly a happy ending. _But I wanted one so badly. . . . _"Oh?" she said, trying not to let on how upset she truly was. "What did happen, then?"

"Let me see if I can think of a short version. . . ." Bonejangles knocked back another glass of orange fluid and wiped the drippings off his jawbone. "Okay, that 'groovy young man' at the end of the song? Turns out he didn't mean to propose to Emily in the first place. Apparently he had a girl Upstairs he was getting married to, but he was havin' some real trouble remembering his wedding vows. So he headed out to the woods to practice, and when he finally got 'em right – well, he had the ring with him, and he slipped it onto Emily's hand. Guessin' he didn't realize what it was. Emily got all excited and popped up to bring him Downstairs, and – well, judging by how he acted when he first got down here, he wasn't thinkin' straight enough to explain right away it was a mistake."

Lizzie bit her lip and looked at the counter. "So it was all a misunderstanding? She must have been heartbroken."

"Yeah, she wasn't happy when she found out about Little Miss Living," Bonejangles nodded. "But here's the part where it starts gettin' tangled. Victor's – that's the man – family's driver ended up Downstairs – some sort of coughing fit, best I heard – and he let slip that Victoria – that's the living girl – was marrying someone else now that Victor was down here with us. Everybody thought he'd vanished, see? Run out on her. Around the same time, Elder Gutknecht – oldest guy in our town, and as smart as you can get – tells Emily that her marriage to Victor doesn't work. Vows only last until 'death do you part,' so sayin' 'em to a dead girl don't mean squat. So Victor, who's a decent guy, tells her he'll marry her properly – even though it means havin' to gulp down a goblet of the Wine of Ages."

"Wine of Ages?" Lizzie parroted, doing her best to keep up.

"Poison," Bonejangles supplied. "Only way he could give his heart to her was if it was dead too."

Lizzie's jaw dropped. "And he was willing to do that?!"

"Yeah, even _after_ Emily said she couldn't make him, according to Mrs. Plum – cook at the place, one of Emily's best friends. Like I said, decent guy. Anyway, they've got to do it up in the living world, so Plum cooks 'em a huge cake and I get the band together, and we all head up there." His grin turned sly. "And some of the folks and I _may_ have teased a little info out of him on where Victoria's family lived so we could spook 'em a little. Just 'cause."

"Oh, that's mean," Lizzie said, biting back a smile –

and then something clicked. "Wait – you went to the Land of the Living again? All of you?! But – but people keep telling me that's impossible! That you can never return once you've died!"

"Well, it's _mostly_ impossible," Bonejangles said, unconcerned that he was mangling the definition of the word. "Nobody can pop up there whenever they want, and you and me can't do it at all. But Elder Gutknecht – guy's pretty much best wizard anybody's ever seen, livin' or dead. He can throw anybody he feels like Upstairs so long as he can get the right stuff. He sent Victor and Emily up before then, so she could meet his parents – which was actually him goin' to talk to his other girl, but details." He swirled his third drink around in its glass. "Guessin' nobody here can cast his Ukranian haunting spell?"

"No one's ever mentioned anything of the sort," Lizzie confirmed, eyes back on the counter. That had been a quick raising and dashing of hopes. "I had no idea such a spell existed before you mentioned it."

"Probably because it's real high-level stuff – raw talent out the arse needed," Bonejangles said sympathetically. "Annoying, I know, if you've got stuff you still want to do up there. But you just gotta learn to live with it."

"I have for the past twelve years," Lizzie replied, rubbing her scalp. "It's just – frustrating to learn there's a way, even if I can't use it. . . ." She closed her eyes briefly, doing her best to put it out of her mind. "At any rate, Victoria's family must have been terrified by your entrance."

"Yeah, they were," Bonejangles said, not sounding quite as amused as before. "Don't have any regrets about spooking that toad of a father of hers, or that beanpole of a mother, but turns out Victoria didn't just dump Victor either – she got _forced_ into marrying someone else. Her old maid told me all about it on the way to the church. She really loved Victor from what I saw. And from what Emily saw too. After we got all settled and Victor was right on the verge of drinking the poison, she spotted Victoria watching them, and – well, she just couldn't do it. Said it wasn't fair to steal someone else's dreams and gave Victor back to Victoria."

Lizzie frowned, going over the order of events in her head. "But – wasn't Victoria married already?"

"She was – still in her wedding dress and everything," Bonejangles confirmed. "I think me and my boys showed up right in the middle of her breakfast. Look on her face convinced me she didn't want to be there, though. And then her new husband showed up at the church – and guess what? It's Barkis!"

"What?!"

"Dead serious – uh, no pun intended. Bastard came back to try his luck with another girl! So of course now everybody's angry, and Barkis and Victor ended up having a fight. Poor Victor got stuck with a barbeque fork thanks to Mrs. Plum throwing him the wrong thing," Bonejangles added with a snort. "Handled himself really well, though – three hits on Lord Bastard before he could even touch Victor. Barkis eventually knocked him down and got ready to skewer him, but Emily saved him at the last minute by stepping in front of the blade. Really proud of her at that moment, gotta say." Bonejangles sipped his drink. "And then Barkis decides he's gotta be mean all over again to Emily, drinks the Wine of Ages like an idiot, dies, and we finally get a chance to show him what we think of murdering arseholes."

"Good," Lizzie said, smiling viciously. Oh, if only one glorious day something like that would happen to Bumby. . . . "But what about Emily?"

"Told ya – she went Up," Bonejangles said, pointing at the ceiling. "Elder Gutknecht told us later – suppose finally seeing the bastard die and then meeting someone willin' to end it all for her did it. She gave Victor back his ring, threw Victoria her bouquet, then dissolved into butterflies. Not surprised – she always liked butterflies."

Lizzie wrinkled her brow. "Begging your pardon?"

"Oh, that's how you go Up. Apparently whatever's keeping us close enough to alive down here gets thrown back into the world through butterflies, or flowers, or stuff like that," Bonejangles half-explained, vaguely waving his free hand. "Don't really know the details – then again, I don't think anybody does. It's the sort of thing you only understand when it's happenin', I think." He gazed contemplatively off into the distance. "Think I'd like to become my music. Part of the rhythm of life for the rest of eternity."

"Can't say I object to that plan – it is good music," Lizzie agreed, pursing her lips. Dissolving away into butterflies or flowers. . .hadn't Miss Winks mentioned something like that when they'd first arrived? She'd been rather distracted at the time. . . . "I was always fond of lilacs and daffodils myself – but I also adored sunshine. I don't know which I'd pick."

"You'll know when the time comes, I guess." Bonejangles rolled his eye toward her. "So yeah, I'd say it all ended happily, even if she didn't get the wedding she wanted. Better she move on, you know? Get out of this dump."

Lizzie eyed him. He didn't sound as happy about that as he ought. "You miss her, don't you?"

Bonejangles shrugged. "We were pretty good friends by the end," he said, somewhat melancholy. "Mrs. Plum was on us for a while to get hitched, but – well, it was never anything romantic. Being around her was like having one of my sisters back." He tipped back what remained of his drink. "Besides, I'm not sure it would have worked even if we had tried it. She was pretty set on marrying a living guy."

Lizzie nodded. "I understand. Is that why you left the town?"

"Yeah, more or less," Bonejangles admitted. "After she did her disappearing act, there seemed to be memories all over the place, so I talked the boys into doing a tour." He pushed his hat back rakishly. "Didn't have to talk long, of course. We've been meaning to get out and about, share our music with the world. So, here we are!"

"Here you are," Lizzie echoed, smiling. "And I'm glad you came." The words surprised her even as she said them. Was she really _glad_ to have a new, mysterious man in town? Someone whom she knew almost nothing about? Normally strangers were a source of fear and anxiety for her. Yes, admittedly she was actively trying to stretch the limits of her comfort zone, but to be _glad_ someone like this was here?

_Except – well – he's interesting,_ she thought, watching as he finished off his drink. _He commands attention, but in a good way. He seems as genuinely interested in others as they may be in him. And he hasn't done anything to set me off yet, beyond bragging a little about his music – which he's backed up admirably._ And_ he's just told me he had a purely platonic relationship with a young woman who, by his own admission, was rather obsessed with getting married. . . . Maybe it's worth trying to get to know him more. I could certainly use someone else to talk to besides Mother and Father._

"Are you?" Bonejangles tilted his head back, his teeth shining in the light. "Never would have guessed when we first met."

It was funny how you could still _feel_ like you were blushing when you lacked the actual capacity. "I – don't take meeting new people well, sometimes," she confessed, twisting the edge of her sleeve. "I'm not one for socializing much outside my family."

"One of those girls who's content to sit with Ma and Pa forever?"

"You could say that. . . ." Though she'd never intended to in life. She'd wanted to go exploring, to visit America and France and maybe even the East before settling down with a mess of children. In fact, she could have still gone off to those places down here – Bonejangles here was proof people traveled – but she'd gotten into the habit of just – sitting around. A wave of sadness hit her – how many chances for excitement had she passed up because Bumby had taken her taste for adventure from her? How many opportunities had been lost to her forever? Suddenly very eager to change the subject, she added, "Speaking of family, you mentioned sisters before?"

"Oh yeah – looking at the oldest of the Thatcher Twelve here," Bonejangles told her, chuckling. "And all the rest were girls."

"_Twelve?!_" Lizzie gaped. "What – but – how do you even _have_ that many children?!"

"Come on, Liddell, don't make me think about what my parents did behind closed doors." Bonejangles tapped on the bar. "Lessee – we had me, then Claire, Nora, April, Hester, Nettie, Hannah, Gladys, May, Virginia, Ethel, and June. Never really got to know the ones at the end, though. I was out doing my thing, riding around and dodging tomatoes, and they were all too little to even remember me as a brother. Hell, I'd bet that June only knows I existed through a couple of pictures. She couldn't have been more than a month or two by the time I expired."

"That's rather sad," Lizzie murmured, folding her hands together on her lap. "Having a sibling that you never even got to know."

"Tell me about it. What's worse is that Dad disappeared four months before she was born. He and Mum were actually from the good ol' US of A – came here right before I was born. Picked up the accent from him," he added, tapping his neck. "Confuses the hell out of people but great for singing. Anyway, Dad was a nice guy, treated us all well, but he didn't like making money the honest way. I'm pretty certain he and Mum _had_ to leave America 'cause he pissed off the wrong people. . .and dead positive he vanished 'cause he'd gotten himself in trouble _again_."

"Oh dear," Lizzie said, biting her lip.

"Yeah, Mum put up with the cardsharping and little stuff like that 'cause it put food on the table, but she was pissed as hell when he didn't come home. Can't blame her either." He sighed. "That's my one big regret down here – not knowing how she and the others are doing up Above. Not getting a chance to see Virginia and Ethel and especially June grow up. Milking the new arrivals for information doesn't work as well as you'd like it to."

Lizzie sighed heavily, leaning on one hand. "I understand _that_ all too well."

"Oh?" Bonejangles rolled his eye in her direction. "Yeah, you said you had siblings of your own Above, didn't you?"

"Only the one – Alice," Lizzie corrected, straightening again. "Ten years younger than me – or, well, she was when I died."

"Ten years?! Sheesh, biggest gap we had was three years between Ethel and June. How'd you get ten?"

"Now who's making people think of what their parents do in private?" Lizzie smirked, before turning serious again. "She was a surprise, you see – Mother was told that she wouldn't be able to have any more children after I came along, but then. . . ." She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together in knots. "Now Alice is the only Liddell left. We regularly beg tidbits off the new arrivals, and look for slips of newspaper, but information on her condition has been exceedingly hard to come by." And the few scraps they _had_ received weren't the sort she wanted to share with Bonejangles just yet. She'd almost prefer it if she didn't know herself. Her little sister, suffering like that. . . .

"Ah. Hard, isn't it?" Bonejangles sympathized. "Not knowing."

"Very," Lizzie agreed. "All I really want is to be sure she's all right. That she's happy. That – that she's got the life she deserves."

"Hear hear." Bonejangles raised his glass. "To Alice and June, and all the rest of my parents' brood too. May they get the lives we didn't get a chance to live."

"I'd drink to that – if I had a drink," Lizzie said, smirking as she patted the empty space before her.

"Could buy you one," Bonejangles said, jerking his head toward the bartender (an older man whose apron didn't quite cover the gunshot wound that had spelt his doom). "Ain't a problem. Least I could do for yakking your ear off."

"No, thank you anyway – I don't drink much, and your conversation itself is payment enough," Lizzie assured him.

"Man, you _have_ come around from the bench."

"This is why you can't always rely on first impressions," Lizzie retorted, grinning. "Granted, if it makes you feel any better, I've learned my lesson about that too."

"Good, we can be two students together then."

"Lizzie!"

Lizzie looked behind her to see a familiar white hand waving above the crowd. "Oh, my parents want me," she reported, sliding off the stool. "I guess they've had enough of bars for the night. . . ." She gave Bonejangles a polite nod. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity."

"Hey, my pleasure," Bonejangles said, offering his hand. Lizzie took it and shook. "Thank you for letting me blabber on about my folks and stuff. Haven't gotten the chance in a while. . .I'll see you around, Miss Liddell."

Lizzie realized she was smiling again. "Yes, I think you will," she said, releasing him and stepping back. "Have a good night, Bonejangles."

"You too."

Lizzie nodded, then headed over to where her parents were now standing. "I think that's the longest conversation you've had with any stranger – particularly a male one – in eleven years," Arthur commented as she neared.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Lizzie said, folding her hands behind her back. "I hadn't even realized we'd talked as long as we had."

"He didn't say anything offensive?"

"No, not at all. He's – he's actually rather nice. A little brash, but. . .I don't know. It's easy to like him. Perhaps it's because he's so different from those stiff students I knew in life," Lizzie said, rolling her eyes at the memory. "No offense, Papa."

"None taken – I remember very well how much you despised every undergraduate who dared set foot in our house," Arthur chuckled. "And I agree – I can't see this Bonejangles fellow fitting in very well with the usual crowd at Oxford. They'd consider him uncouth at the very least."

Lorina squeezed Lizzie's arm. "I'm glad you've made a new friend. If that's what he is."

"He might be," Lizzie said, glancing back at the skeleton. He was back to chattering about next night's show with his mates, though the conversation was rather more slurred than before. "At least, I wouldn't mind spending more time with him." She laughed, trying to ignore the pained note that snuck into her voice. "Never thought you'd hear me say that about any man again, did you?"

Lorina pulled her close. "Oh Lizzie. . .I wouldn't care if you avoided the other sex for the rest of your afterlife, so long as you were happy and smiling again."

"Me either," Arthur said, slipping his arm around his daughter. "But I'm also glad to see you moving on."

"I'm glad too, trust me. I really didn't want _him_ defining the rest of my afterlife." She snuggled into her parents, wishing for the millionth time she could really feel them again. "I just wish he hadn't gotten away with it. That I could be sure that he was going to get what was coming to him."

"He will," Arthur said firmly. "I don't care how long it takes – justice will be served someday."

"And until then, we'll just make the best of things, as we have been," Lorina nodded.

"Now shee here, fair's fair! Aces beat Kingsh!"

"Kings are top and I dun care what anybody elshe says! Broadshman! Cheat!"

Startled, Lizzie jerked her head up to see a pair of corpses arguing in the back, near where she and her parents had been sitting before. Both of them looked like they'd had a few too many, and the altercation was rapidly escalating from angry words to shoving. "Ah yes – that's why your father and I hailed you," Lorina said, chewing her lip. "I think it's best we leave before the entire bar gets involved with this nastiness, don't you?"

"I agree," Lizzie nodded, edging toward the door. "Time to go."

Arthur grabbed a nearby waiter to settle their tab, and the three Liddells made their escape just as the first bottle was thrown. Once at the door, however, Lizzie found herself lingering just long enough to give Bonejangles one last glance. The musician's attention was consumed by the developing brawl (which already had three times as many participants as people actually arguing), but after a moment he appeared to feel her eyes and turned. Lizzie gave him a quick wave, which he returned before ducking out of the way of a clumsily-thrown mug. Giggling, Lizzie hurried to catch up with her parents. _Yes. . .I think we could quite easily be friends indeed._


	6. A Series of Surprises

Chapter 6

July 25th, 1875

Oxford, England, Land of the Dead

1:09 P.M.

"So when I get in the door, here's the picture waiting for me – Mum, Claire, and Nettie absolutely _covered_ in flour, Nora soaked from waist to shoes, and Gladys laughing her head off over on the side. First thing I can think of to say is, 'You lot know that Halloween isn't til _next_ month, right?'"

Lizzie giggled madly. "Oh dear. . .what _did_ they have to say for themselves?"

"Well, my sisters were either too embarrassed or too busy laughing to pay attention to little old me. Mum, though, shot right back with 'You're home so rarely you might be a ghost yourself! We're just trying to make you feel welcome!'" Bonejangles laughed. "Always knew the perfect comeback line, my mum."

"My mother has a few talents along that line herself," Lizzie said with a grin. "Though she's a lot more subtle about it, usually. You should hear her opinion on Proverbial Philosophy."

"That one of those fancy-learnin' books?"

"Yes, and as dull as dishwater. One of our tutors insisted that we had to at least look at it. I couldn't make it past the first chapter, and Alice fell asleep when Papa read her a few pages." Lizzie shook her head fondly. "Of course, Alice tended to scorn any book that didn't have pictures. Seemed to think the only worthwhile literature in the world was the brightly-colored nursery story."

"I know how she feels," Bonejangles said, leaning back and pushing his hat over his eye. "Wasn't a book in our house that didn't have pictures. Then again, it wasn't like we could afford any 'literature.' I learned to read off penny dreadfuls and scraps of newspaper. My sisters only got nursery stories 'cause I was able to earn a shilling or two delivering stuff or sweeping people's steps."

Lizzie clucked her tongue sympathetically. "It sounds like a rough life. I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. I made my own fun, racing other boys to get all the good jobs first and playing sword fight with the broom. And Dad once filched me a nice hobbyhorse, so I had that." Lifting his hat slightly, he rolled his eye to the other socket and winked. "'Sides – better to be some poor boy with a mess of lovin' sisters than some pissy rich undergrad who nobody can stand."

"Quite." Lizzie snickered, then leaned back and looked up at the indigo sky. She hadn't had such a pleasant afternoon in a while – not since her breathing days, she'd wager, when she could go out walking with Alice. She and Bonejangles were sitting on what she'd come to think of as "their" bench, in the park where they'd first met. Bonejangles had run across her there the day after their halted conversation in The Hip Joint, and they'd just gravitated toward the spot ever since. They'd sit together for a hour or two, talking about this and that and sharing stories from their lives. Bonejangles was as masterful a storyteller as he was a singer, Lizzie was pleased to find – he did all the different voices and gestures of the people he was discussing, and sometimes even used any handy shadows on the ground to illustrate the scene in question. (That little trick had turned out to be a spell he'd learned about a year after his death – "one us ordinary folk can do," as he'd put it. He'd shown Lizzie how to do it as well, to her delight. She now spent many a hour in her room reading books aloud, changing the shadows around her into things like castles and forests and mountains. It was fascinating.) He was also a good listener – paying the same close attention to her anecdotes as she did to his, laughing at the funny bits and sympathizing over the sad, and – best of all – never ever treating her like she couldn't know what she was talking about just because she was a girl. It was a breath of fresh air after years and years of feeling like people only cared about her face, not her mind. Over the past week, Lizzie had gone from suffering a few lingering traces of nerves in his presence to actively anticipating their meetings. It felt good to be friends – real friends – with someone again.

They were silent for a bit, just gazing out at the bruise-purple horizon and enjoying the moment of quiet. The Land of the Dead seemed stuck in an eternal twilight, Lizzie had noted, with a faint brightening for what one would consider the daylight hours and a slight darkening for the nighttime ones. It wasn't even noticeable until you'd been down here a while, and even then it seemed barely worth the sky's effort. It was pretty enough, Lizzie supposed – better than no sky at all. But sometimes, she couldn't help but miss actual light. She'd never been the biggest fan of summer, being unusually sensitive to the heat, but right now she'd take a day that felt like sitting in an oven if it meant being able to feel the sunshine on her face. It would have made this moment just perfect. "That's what I'd like, I think," she mumbled, her thoughts drifting to brides and butterflies. "To be bright sunshine on a spring day."

"Beg pardon?" Bonejangles said, peeping out at her from under his brim.

"I was just thinking about what you said before, about going Up," Lizzie explained, glancing at him. "I've decided I want to be sunshine most of all. With maybe a few flower petals mixed in for color."

Bonejangles chuckled. "Sounds pretty. Though I think you still got time to decide."

"Well, you never know for sure. From what Miss Winks and her friends have told me, going Up can be rather sudden. I want to be prepared when it happens." Lizzie sat up straight again. "Besides, you've already got your preferred method of exit."

"Yeah, but can you see me picking anything _besides_ a few bars of one of my tunes?"

"Good point," Lizzie said, grinning. "You talk a lot about your sisters Upstairs," she added, switching the subject. "Isn't there anyone else that might miss you?"

"What do you mean?" Bonejangles asked, pushing his hat back.

"You know – other family members, friends. . . ." Lizzie began fiddling with the decaying fabric of her skirt. "Girlfriends. . . ." Oh, was she glad it wasn't possible for the dead to blush. This was an awkward subject, especially for her. But for some reason, the idea of Bonejangles and other women had been poking at her mind over the past couple of days. There was no denying that her new friend was a very charismatic fellow. It wouldn't surprise her in the least to discover he'd captured a few hearts. But – what did he do with them afterward? He'd never mentioned a wife, or any other commitments of that nature. And yet, he didn't seem at all like a common rake. Everything about him screamed nice. But the question simply would not stop gnawing on her brain. She had to ask – even if she feared that she wouldn't like the answer.

"Oh! Uh. . . ." Bonejangles scratched his head, giving the impression he'd be blushing too if he could. "Well, it was just Mum and Dad who came over on the boat, so if I have other family, I never met 'em. Had a few friends growing up, but when you're on the road, it's hard to keep up with letters and stuff like that. My sisters tended to be my closest friends. As for the last. . .never really had one of those. Like I said, hard to keep up with that stuff on the road, and I just traveled around too much. I mean, I had a few short _flings_, nothing special. . . ."

Lizzie frowned, not quite liking how he'd put that. "To you or to the girls?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

"To either – only went after girls who didn't mind a quick roll in the hay, no strings attached," he replied, waving his hand. "Never lead anybody on about what I wanted, cut 'em loose right away if they wanted more." He gave her an awkward shrug. "But – you know how it is. Guy gets – urges."

Urges. The word entered Lizzie's ears, traveled straight down into the center of her belly, then flashed into hot anger. "Oh yes, you lot get _urges_," she growled, hands tightening on her dress. "Maybe you're nothing _but_ urges."

Bonejangles blinked his single eye. "Uh–"

"And when you get those urges, you don't care tuppence what the girl thinks," she continued, eyes narrowing to slits as the fire inside her grew. "You just want what you want and you don't care where or from whom you get it."

"Is this some weird way of asking me if I paid for it? Yeah, fine, couple of times, what's the–"

"And it doesn't matter if the girl's said no, if she's made it _abundantly_ clear that she does not like you, that she thinks you're creepy and horrible and deserve to fall over a cliff–"

"Hey, wait a minute–"

"No, you just go ahead and take what you _bloody_ well want and don't give a damn how it affects her because it's not like girls have feelings–"

"What the hell–"

"You'd just hold her down and tell her she was _asking_ for it and then threaten to shut her up as she tried to scream for help–"

"You stop _right there_, Liddell!"

Lizzie's mouth snapped shut, her fire abruptly quenched by the sudden fury she heard in his voice. "I never did _anything_ like that!" Bonejangles snarled, leaning right into her face and tipping his head so the shadows hid his skeletal smile. Lizzie grabbed the arm of the bench to stabilize herself against his glare. "Every time a girl and I had a tumble, it was because we _both_ wanted one! If she said no, I backed off! You forget I have eleven sisters? You know how often I worried when they started getting old enough to notice boys that some guy might try and take advantage of 'em, or hurt 'em while I wasn't there? You know how many times I cut a trip short just to check on 'em? In fact, when I was dyin', I wasn't so much afraid of closin' my eyes and never openin' them again as I was leavin' my family alone with no one to help protect 'em from the scumbags!" He finally pulled back a bit, and now his skull seemed hurt somehow. "I thought we were getting along, _Miss Liddell_! How the hell can you sit there and tell me I'd – I'd. . . ."

He trailed off, his eye rolling into the other socket as his head suddenly tilted away in thought. Then he turned back to her, his expression now strangely sympathetic. "Uh, Liddell? Something you didn't tell me about the way you died?"

Lizzie blamed the way he said it – his voice so genuinely concerned and sad. She stared at him for what seemed an eternity, trying to master the swell of emotion inside of her. Then she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.

For a while, there was nothing but her own grief and pain, still so sharp even after just over a decade. Then she became aware of a light, hesitant pressure on her shoulder. Sneaking a peek through her sobs, she saw Bonejangles resting his hand there, looking like he wanted to pull her into a hug but was holding himself back. On the one hand, she appreciated his attempt at comfort – in fact, part of her just wanted to throw her arms around him and soak his ribcage through. On the other, she was intensely sensitive of the fact that he was a man right now – one who'd set her off no less – and her other half was equally enthused with the idea of shoving him off the bench and watching his bones clatter everywhere. She settled on remaining where she was, concentrating on getting the flow of tears to dry. "I'm – I'm sorry," she whispered, finally regaining some measure of self-control. "I d-didn't mean to. . .it's only that. . .I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Bonejangles told her, pulling his hand back to scratch at his skull. "Uh – I'd offer you a hanky, but I stopped carrying one about the time I stopped needing clothes. . .and I don't think my hat would do your face any favors if you tried to use it like that."

Lizzie surprised herself by laughing at that – weakly, but still. "I'm fine," she assured him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's not like I break down this way on a regular basis. I haven't cried like that in almost twelve years. Not since I first. . . ." She let her voice fade, not sure if she could yet put it into words without another bout of waterworks.

"Look, you don't have to tell me anything," Bonejangles said, pushing his bowler forward so it almost hid his eye. "I just – I was pissed until it hit me how you were puttin' it, and then. . .it ain't any of my business."

"Maybe not before, but I'd say I made it your business by accusing you so cruelly," Lizzie said, straightening her spine in the hopes it would help her nerves. "Besides, I think you've already guessed what I'm about to tell you. I may as well get it all out right now – back in life, I wasn't much of one for concealment anyhow." Taking a deep breath out of old habit, she plunged right in. "During the last of my breathing years, I caught the eye of a certain Oxford undergraduate by the name of Angus Bumby. He was an arrogant, cold bastard – with clammy hands to boot – and I hated him right from the start. Unfortunately, the first time he saw me, he immediately became infatuated – and it wasn't long before I was his obsession. He'd follow me everywhere, demanding that I let him court me and become his wife. No matter what I did to shake him, he kept insisting that we were meant to be, that his future happiness depended on me being his." She dropped her head. "Finally, after months of that nonsense, he decided that if I wouldn't be his willingly, he'd take me by – by force."

"Oh hell, Liddell," Bonejangles whispered. "So he–"

Lizzie nodded, gripping her skirt so tightly she was surprised her fingers didn't rip right through the cloth. "Snuck into our house one cold November night and took me by surprise. Held me down, had his w-way with me. . .and then, when I wouldn't stop trying to fight back, strangled me to death. My last memory before waking up down here is gasping for air while he glared at me and called me a tease." She swallowed, wishing the memory of his fingers against her throat still wasn't so clear. What good was getting rid of the marks on her body if she couldn't destroy the ones on her mind? "Then he stole my sister's nightlight and set the house ablaze to kill the rest of my family and cover his crime."

"Damn," Bonejangles mumbled, apparently not knowing what else to say.

"Damn indeed." She stared at her hands. "And he got away with it," she added, voice low and disgusted. "From what we've gathered, the police Upstairs think our cat Dinah was responsible for the fire – accidentally knocking over a lamp during a midnight stroll. And my sister. . . ." She stopped, biting her lip.

"Orphanage?" Bonejangles guessed, pushing his hat back again.

"Worse," Lizzie whispered, unable to look at him. "Asylum."

"What?!"

"They sent her to Rutledge Asylum in London," Lizzie elaborated, each word like a knife in her heart. "She – she apparently stopped responding to anything after the fire. Blamed herself and retreated into the depths of her mind. We actually met a former patient from the hospital she was at right before they transferred her – on the first anniversary of our death, in fact – and she said that Alice was either just lying there as if dead herself or – or screaming that it was all her fault. . . ." She squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of threatening tears. "My poor little sister. . . ."

"I'm not complaining about how I died _ever again_," Bonejangles declared, putting his hand back on her shoulder. "That's just – wow. She still in there, or. . . ?"

"That's the thing – we don't know!" Lizzie cried, finally meeting his eye again. "You said yourself it was hard to get information from Upstairs! We had a few lucky breaks early on with scraps of newspaper, but after that. . . . Nobody else we've talked to has had any news on her! We even went to Rutledge itself to speak with the dead there, and still came up empty!" She threw up her hands. "Do you know what I'd give for a chance to see her for myself – to make sure that she actually got _out_ of that wretched place? That she's living the life she deserves? But for twelve years, everyone tells me there's no hope of returning to the world of the living – and even when you come along and mention this 'Ukrainian haunting spell,' it's still completely useless to me! For God's sake, is it really that complicated to pull off?"

"Not complicated at all, actually," Bonejangles admitted, rolling his eye from socket to socket. "You crack open a raven's egg, concentrate really, really hard – and poof, back in the Land of the Living."

"That's _it_?! So why can't anyone do that whenever they like?"

"Because – oh, hell, how did the Elder put it?" Bonejangles rubbed his impressive jawbone. "Something about 'twisting the laws of nature' and 'the veil is thick' – I don't know. What it boils down to is that you need somebody with more magical talent than God to pull it off. Just smashing a raven's egg won't work if you ain't the right sort of person. Elder Gutknecht was the only one of us who could cast the spell for miles around."

"But – you can do that business with the shadows!" Lizzie protested, folding her arms petulantly.

"Yeah, and that's about _all_ I can do," Bonejangles replied. "Probably have it in me for one or two other tricks, but I've never bothered to learn. And that ain't all that hard – mean, seemed easy enough when I taught it to you, right?"

"I suppose. . .but cracking a raven's egg seems easy too."

"That's magic for ya," Bonejangles said, shrugging. "It likes to make you jump through hoops. If you don't have the right stuff in ya – and most people don't – you ain't gonna be doing anything more than playing with shadows and popping up pretty lights. Some people can do more impressive stuff, but folks like Elder Gutknecht, who make whole darn spellbooks roll over and bark for 'em – lucky bastards – are rarer than unicorns, alive _or_ dead."

"Hmph. Well, you've proven my previous point very well indeed, at least," Lizzie said, looking away with a scowl. "I'm stuck. No matter how much I beg and plead, I will probably never find out anything about my sister until she dies. And that, God willing, won't be until I've decayed to the point where I look like you – or have turned to dust completely."

"Hang on a sec, don't get all depressed just yet," Bonejangles said, squeezing her shoulder. "Just because you can't do it yourself doesn't mean you can't have it done _to_ you. That's how we all got up to Burtonsville in the first place, ya know?"

"Fair enough but who do you propose I ask for help? There's no one here like your Elder Gutknecht."

Bonejangles was silent for a moment. "Well. . . ." he said at last. "If you and your family are willing to pull up your roots. . . ."

Lizzie's jaw dropped so badly that she had to shove it back into place. Was he implying that – She turned to face him. His hat was half over his left socket again – his usual tic when he was feeling awkward or embarrassed – but nothing in his expression (what there was of it) hinted that he was anything but genuine in his offer. "You – you'd take us to see your friend?"

"Yeah, why not?" Bonejangles nodded. "The Elder's a good guy. I'm sure that if I brought you over and you told him that story – minus maybe the really heavy stuff – he'd let you pop Upstairs for a night to see what you could find out. You'd just have to be really careful about letting anybody see you. Though I dunno how he'd manage to get you guys to show up near Rutledge instead of Burtonsville. . . ." He drummed his fingers against his chin. "Eh, that's for him to figure out. If you're willing to talk to him."

"I – o-of course I am, but–" Lizzie's head was spinning with shock. "We've known each other for what, a week? That sort of offer is – it's very kind, but–"

"But nothin'," Bonejangles said firmly. "Yeah, maybe it's short notice, but after the story you just told me? I wouldn't feel right _not_ offering. Besides, we're friends, aren't we? I mean–" He fussed with his hat, not quite meeting her eyes. "I thought we were. . .get along pretty well and all. . . ."

He was almost cute when he was feeling shy. Lizzie smiled. "We are," she reassured him, putting her hand over his. "You're the most interesting – and nicest – man I've known in a long while. And being willing to do that, after a mere week and one painful recounting. . . ." She nodded, making a snap decision. "We'll have to talk to my parents about it – but you can be sure _I'm_ going with you, even if they aren't."

"Great! Though it'll probably be a long trip," Bonejangles warned, rolling his eye from right to left. "Even in a straight line, Burtonsville's a long ride from here."

"It's all right – I've waited for this chance almost twelve years. I can wait a little while longer." Lizzie folded her hands on her lap. "Besides, it might be fun to see your band on the road. They won't mind leaving, will they?"

"Uh, no." Bonejangles coughed and looked away again. "Honestly, we shoulda left a couple of days ago, but – um – I've been having such a good time with you. . . ."

All right, she _had_ to be blushing this time, no matter how impossible it was. "I see." Funny – that sort of confession from the men she'd known Upstairs would have prompted a derisive snort and a comment about their lack of imagination. From Bonejangles, though. . .it made her stomach flip over in a strange, but not entirely unpleasant, way. Did she really like him that much? After a mere week? Then again, she was already certain of his like for her. . . . "Um – thank you?"

He laughed, breaking the tension. "Hey, thank _you_. You're the one who's good company, Liddell."

She grinned. "You're not so bad yourself." Another snap decision presented itself and was accepted. "And you know, you don't _have_ to call me by my last name. You can use 'Elizabeth.' Or, actually, I prefer Lizzie and variations thereof. The only people who ever call me 'Elizabeth' are my parents when they're upset and – well, _him_."

Bonejangles nodded, his teeth shining in the dim light. "All right – Liz."

Liz? That was a new one. Lizzie considered it a moment, then smiled. Liz. . .she rather liked it. "Glad that's settled," she said, getting to her feet. "Now come on, Bonejangles – the sooner we talk to Mama and Papa, the better."

"Sam."

Lizzie blinked, caught off guard. "Begging your pardon?"

Bonejangles was in that awkward pose again, hat now nearly covering everything but his lower jaw. "Sam," he repeated, back to sounding shy. "That's the name I was born with – Samuel Thatcher. Well, it's my _middle_ name, but my first is so stupid I don't ever go by it. So – yeah." He shoved his bowler back up and shrugged. "Since we're friends and all."

Lizzie got the feeling she'd been let into a most private club. A pleasant puddle of warmth filled her belly. How the hell could she have ever considered him anything like that arse Bumby? Damn, if only they'd been able to meet while they were alive. . .she would have so appreciated having male company around the house that _didn't_ disgust her. Would have made a lot of her later years much more tolerable. "All right – Sam." She jerked her head. "Let's go see how my parents feel about your idea, why don't we?"

Bonejangles stood up and offered her his arm. "Sounds like a plan, Liz."

* * *

"All right – let me get this straight. You know someone that, despite all laws of nature, can send us back Upstairs for a night."

"You got it," Bonejangles confirmed, tipping his head slightly. "Know it ain't long, but you could grab a few newspapers, see what the skinny is."

"Fine. But it also requires us to leave Oxford?"

"'Fraid so – unless you want me to send a letter to the Elder. Think waitin' for that to hit him, then for him to drag himself over here, would take longer than you want, though."

"We'd have to leave Oxford anyway to find Alice – Rutledge is in London proper," Lizzie pointed out, glancing nervously at Bonejangles. This conversation wasn't going quite how she'd expected. Her parents' initial reactions to their news had been promising – Lorina had actually screamed in joy, and Arthur had almost hugged Bonejangles. Now that they were into the details, though, they were looking rather more hesitant about the whole matter. How could they be so determined to stay in Oxford? It wasn't like they hadn't taken trips while they were alive – why avoid doing so in death? Especially for such a worthy cause! "And if she has gotten out–"

"She could be anywhere in England," Lorina finished for her, sighing. "I know, darling. That's what has your father and I so concerned. It's a wonderful opportunity, but – from what I understand, this isn't a spell you can cast whenever you want. Or, well, maybe this 'Elder Gutknecht' can, but I don't think he'd be willing to do so at our beck and call. We have to consider this a one-shot deal. We can't afford to waste it looking in the wrong place for her."

Ahhh – that was actually a good point. If you only got one crack at this, you couldn't go in without a firm plan. "We could still seek out information, though," Lizzie pressed, unwilling to give up. "Like Bonejangles says, we could finally find ourselves a few proper, up-to-date newspapers. Maybe even talk to some people!"

"Looking like this?" Lorina asked, lifting her hand and wiggling her skeletal fingers.

"Yes – well – if you can manipulate shadows and tear through the barrier between life and death, surely you can disguise someone to look as if they were alive again," Lizzie replied, looking to her friend for confirmation.

"Yeah, False Flesh," Bonejangles obligingly offered up. "Emily tried it a couple of times while she was waiting to look like she did when she was a breather, but gave it up pretty quick. Said it made her too sad to see her old skin and hair without the ring. Even if the Elder can't teach you how to do it, he can probably whip up a potion or something for you lot to use."

"See?" Lizzie grinned. "You needn't worry about your hand or nose at all."

"Ah." Lorina twisted her hands together in her lap, bones clicking, as she glanced anxiously at Arthur. "I suppose that would make things much easier. . .oh, but I don't know." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, Lizzie, I know you're excited – I'm just not sure I have it in me to get my hopes up that much anymore. Especially with all the restrictions, and my own fears of what's happened to her up there. . . ."

"My trip into Rutledge is etched into my mind," Arthur added, shuddering. "The place was dirty and crowded and I'm quite certain it's even _worse_ in the living world. Could you stand learning that she was still there, my girl? Could you stand _visiting_?" He swallowed. "And – what if Bumby's on the payroll?"

Lizzie went stiff. That hadn't even occurred to her. She'd been so eager to maybe see her sister again that she hadn't even considered that going Upstairs _did_ present the possibility that she'd run into her defiler and murderer once more. There was a good chance that he did indeed work at Rutledge, or at least had a house and practice in the city. Ugh, the very idea that he was allowed to work with the sick – that he might have tried therapy on her sister –! Her nonexistent blood boiled. "Then I'll scare him into confessing and at least put _one_ thing right," she declared, lifting her chin with determined disdain. "Hopefully Rutledge isn't stupid enough to have hired him as one of their doctors. Aren't they supposed to be this wonderful facility aiding the sick and weak?"

"Yes – but so is Bedlam House, technically," Arthur deadpanned.

"Even so." She let herself relax a bit. "I understand that you're frightened about what we might find – or that we won't find anything at all – but I can't let this opportunity pass us by, no matter the danger of heartache and pain. I'm not going to rest in peace until I know my little sister's made a decent life for herself up there. And I doubt you will either."

"You've certainly got us there," Lorina allowed, smiling. "Knowing that she's out of there, that she's found her place in the world – I'd probably go Up for good that very moment." She fiddled with her hands again. "I suppose it's the dramatics of it all that unnerves me."

"Well, you never were one for theater."

"You know what I mean. Returning to the World Above after twelve years Below? It feels like we're violating every law of nature there is. I'm worried about the potential consequences."

"World didn't blow up from us heading up there," Bonejangles pointed out. "Pretty sure Elder Gutknecht wouldn't have allowed the wedding if that was the case."

"No offense to you, Bonejangles, but I'd rather hear that from the Elder himself."

"Me, I just want to make sure it _works _before we make any definite plans," Arthur said, stroking his scraggly beard. He fixed an eye on Lizzie. "You're determined to go no matter our answer?"

"I have to," Lizzie nodded. "I feel like it's my duty. I lost my nerve back on the Rutledge trip – I don't want to fail her again."

"Well then – how about this. You and Bonejangles go to Burtonsville, find the Elder, and explain our situation. If he agrees to help, take the opportunity to get Upstairs and work on the answers to these two questions: Is Alice still in Rutledge? If not, where is she living? Those you should be able to get in a night, if nothing else. Then write to us with everything you know. Once we have an idea where she is, plus whatever other information you manage to find, either we'll come to you to see the Elder or you can bring the Elder to us, and we'll negotiate for a second trip to settle our minds on the issue as completely as we can."

Lizzie grinned. It was good to see her father taking charge of things again. He sounded almost like he had when he was alive and they were arranging trips to Brighton. "That sounds like a good plan to me," she said. "Bonejangles?"

"Yeah, I think it'll work," the skeleton agreed, rolling his eye from left to right. "Elder Guknecht's a reasonable guy. Space 'em out properly, promise not to cause panic, and he shouldn't make a huge fuss about two trips."

"All right then! I guess that's settled," Arthur said, clapping his hands together. "Well, except for your travel accommodations, Lizzie. Clothes, shoes, books–" he suddenly fixed Bonejangles with a vicious glare "– making sure your potential companions understand _quite well_ that my daughter is not to be forced into anything she is uncomfortable with."

Bonejangles gulped – quite the feat for someone lacking a proper throat. "You got my word on that," he said, holding up his hand. "Swear on my honor as the older brother of eleven girls."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up. "_Eleven_?!"

"That was pretty much my reaction," Lizzie said, giggling. "But trust me, Papa, he's not the sort to pull anything. I've known him just long enough to be certain of that."

"Well, I can trust your instincts on that matter," Arthur said, looking a little rattled still. "But I'd at least like to know your planned route to this Burtonsville."

"Oh, that's easy," Bonejangles said, relaxing. "You gotta map around here, right?"

As Arthur fetched an atlas and Bonejangles began outlining his preferred route down to the village, Lorina rose and took Lizzie's hand, giving it a tug. "Could I see you more privately for a moment, Lizzie?"

Puzzle, Lizzie got up and followed her mother to the other side of the room. Lorina glanced back at the two men, then took her daughter gently by the shoulders. "You're really okay with going on a trip with him?" she asked quietly, eyes full of motherly concern. "He hasn't coerced you in any way? I know you keep saying everything's fine and you want to go, but – Lizzie, this is rather out of character for you."

"Being friends with him in the first place is rather out of character for me," Lizzie retorted, then softened. "But I do understand your concern. If this was any other fellow, I wouldn't even have thought of accepting his offer. But – Bonejangles is different, Mama. I know it's only been a week, but – he's exactly the sort of man I would have liked the company of while I was alive. Brash and silly, but fun and warm and actually willing to listen. And he's never – all right, no, he made me uncomfortable _once_."

"Once?" Lorina echoed, frowning slightly.

"Earlier today, in fact. We got to talking about him and relationships, and he made a comment about 'urges' that set me off. I started snapping at him about taking it from girls who didn't want it taken, he snapped back at me about how I could accuse him of such business when he had eleven sisters to look after, and then –" She circled her wrist with her hand, absently rubbing the leathering skin. "I told him. About Bumby, I mean. He knows pretty much everything that happened."

Lorina's eyes had gone wide enough to pop right out of her skull – in fact, the right one was looking dangerously loose. "You – told him?" she whispered. "I thought you were going to keep – _that_ a secret from everyone!"

"He more or less guessed it from what I was ranting about," Lizzie admitted, twisting her wrist from side to side and listening to the bones clack. "I did start – flashing back, more or less. I ended up breaking down completely in front of him, in fact. And he – he tried to comfort me. Not a word about me being a weak, silly girl, or trying to move in too close – just a hand on the shoulder and a couple of encouraging words after I'd calmed myself down. I'm sure even Mr. Prince would have gone in for a hug, and I would have ended up knocking his head off. Would have felt sorry for it afterwards, of course, but still." Lizzie released her wrist. "But Bonejangles – he knows the score. He had a friend who had her life ended by a man who only wanted one thing from her – different thing than Bumby wanted, but even so. And when you hear him talk about his sisters. . . . I can believe he's offering this solely out of the goodness of his heart. Maybe it's silly, but I – I honestly do feel I can trust him. Certainly more than I can trust any other man I've met."

Lorina tilted her head, lips pursed thoughtfully. "You truly do like him don't you? You've been happier this week than you have been over the past twelve years, I think. Certainly you've been getting out of the house more regularly."

"He's good company," Lizzie replied with a grin. "Not a thing like the Oxford toadies. I consider it a great shame that he likely died while I was only a child."

Lorina smiled back. "I do too. I'm so glad you've met someone who makes you feel this way, Lizzie."

Something about the way her mother said that made a little alarm go off in Lizzie's head. The tone was just a bit too – tender, she decided. "It's not like _that_," she protested, although she found herself thinking of pleasantly flip-flopping bellies as she said it. _Oh come off it, brain, that can't possibly mean anything._ "We're friends. That's all." She reached for her wrist again to give it another quick twist. "I mean, can you imagine me wanting anything – softer and warmer, I suppose – after how I died?"

Lorina's smile faded. "True enough. . . ." she mumbled. "Sorry, Lizzie. Old motherly instincts coming to the fore. Wanting – wanting what any mother wants for her daughter."

"I know, Mama," Lizzie said, giving her a hug. "But you'll have to be content with a gentleman friend who's simply that."

Lorina squeezed her, then reached out and playfully ruffled Lizzie's hair. "Even still – a gentleman friend is a big accomplishment for you." She held her daughter at arm's length again. "I'm proud of you, Lizzie. And he really _does_ seem nice."

Lizzie grinned and pulled Lorina in for another brief hug. "I'm glad you approve." Then her expression turned wicked. "And trust me – should any of his Bone Boys try something, I'll snap them apart and scatter them to the four winds."

Lorina smirked. "Now that's my girl."

"Well, it sounds reasonable enough to me," Arthur said, getting their attention. He poked at the map. "From here to the heart of London, then onward down the Thames. . .it'll probably take you to the end of summer to get there, but if the spell works, and we get something on Alice, it'll be worth it."

"Most definitely," Lizzie agreed with a nod. "When do we leave?"

"First thing tomorrow, if you're ready," Bonejangles declared, rolling his eye left to right. "Not like me and my Boys have much to pack."

"I don't either, honestly," Lizzie said. "So you can pick me up around – seven?"

"Eh, seven-thirty might be better," Bonejangles admitted, voice a touch embarrassed. "Chauncey takes a bit to get movin', especially if he's had a few the night before."

"Seven-thirty then." Lizzie reached out and shook his hand – then bowed to impulse and gave him a quick hug. She felt him freeze with surprise, then give her a nervous pat on the back. "You're the best skeleton ever, did you know that?"

"'Course I do," he said, affecting bravado. "Surprised it took you this long to figure out."

"I'm a slow learner," Lizzie joked, releasing him. "'Til tomorrow morning, then."

"See ya then, Liz." Bonejangles tipped his hat to Arthur and Lorina. "Nice meetin' you, folks. And don't worry. Sam" – he winked at Lizzie – "will take good care of her."

With that, he ambled out the door. Arthur and Lorina exchanged a puzzled look. "Sam?" Arthur echoed. "Does his band have an official chaperone?"

"No, Sam's him," Lizzie explained with a snicker. In response to their surprised looks, she added, "Well, you didn't think his Christian name was _Bonejangles_, did you? He told me it right before we came here."

Lorina got that suspiciously tender look in her eyes again. "Did he. . . ."

Lizzie rolled hers. "It's not like that, Mother," she insisted.

"I'm sure it isn't," Lorina said, though she couldn't help a little smile. "You should get your packing done right now, so you're ready for when he comes over."

"Good idea," Lizzie nodded, heading out of the library.

"And – if I could make a suggestion? I'd take your blue dress. The one that matches your eyes." She shrugged as Lizzie glanced back at her suspiciously. "You want to look nice while meeting the Elder, right? And it does have the least burn marks of all your clothes."

"Yes, Mama." Lizzie rolled her eyes as she made for the stairs. _Oh, parents. I guess she can't really help her hopes. They were mine too, once upon a time. So long as she understands deep down that nothing's likely to happen. Even if he is a nice fellow, friendship is all I could ever want from him._

_. . .Of course, she has a point. That dress probably _is_ the best I own for visiting. . . ._


	7. A Shocker In Whitechapel

Chapter 7

August 12th, 1875

Whitechapel, London, England, Land of the Dead

4:23 P.M.

"Eugh – did you really _have_ to take a 'gig' here?"

Lizzie wrinkled her nose as her gaze traveled up and down the street. "I mean, when you told me we were visiting a club in London, I thought we were going somewhere – well – not this." Rather than the expected hustle and bustle and shine of the capital's West End, she and the Bone Boys were wandering through a neighborhood she'd only read about in charity literature before. And said literature barely did the place justice. This place was little more than a glorified junkyard to Lizzie's eyes. Random bits of trash spilled down from large heaps piled up against the walls, littering the cracking, crumbling sidewalks; streaks of grime slithered like snakes through the mortar-poor cracks of the rickety, leaning buildings; and the foulest smell Lizzie had ever encountered crawled its way out of the sewers, powerful enough to irritate even her long-dead sinuses. She kicked at a rusty old can in their path, shaking her head. _How anyone could live – or die – in such surroundings is absolutely beyond me. _

On the other hand, it wasn't like the people populating the area looked (or smelled) any better. They too were figures she only knew from the pamphlets left over from meetings of her mother's "Progressive Women's Club" – there had been no chance of meeting their like in Oxford, or the parts of London she'd been familiar with while alive. Prostitutes done up in tattered rags and lurid face paint gabbled to each other on street corners and winked at passers-by. Factory workers in moldering overalls and worm-eaten gloves complained about the bastards who'd sent them to their graves from overwork and spouted lewd comments at the prostitutes. Construction men in rotting caps and rat-chewed boots muttered about poor work on new buildings and engaged in friendly (or not-so-friendly) brawls. Street vendors lugging around decaying wooden trays and broken signs stood around and hawked their wares, not even bothering to hide the evidence of their doctoring of the food. (Though, to be fair, at this point mouse droppings and old paste probably made things taste _better_.) Everyone who still had flesh on them looked like they'd never quite gotten enough to eat, and a good number were missing teeth or sported a badly-set nose. Lizzie was doing her best not to gawk or grimace, but it was like being at the circus's freak show – you couldn't help but stare. This was all the sort of life she'd only heard whispered about in her safely upper-middle-class home – and now, she was in the thick of it. She scooted a little closer to Bonejangles and Chauncey, a flicker of the old fear popping up as a nearby man gave her a much-too-interested grin. _You're safe, you're safe. . .they can't do anything to you, they haven't got the ability anymore. . . ._

Bonejangles slipped an arm around her with calculated ease, making the man frown and move on. Lizzie relaxed again, leaning up against him gratefully. "Yeah, I know – Whitechapel's the gutter of the East End," he agreed, nodding to another fellow sitting on a stoop, whose muscles still bulged under his shirt (though Lizzie could see the maggots had already started work on that feast). "And that's saying somethin' if you know the area. Miserable place." He gave her a smile, angling his jaw to best friendly effect. "But the worst of it stays above us – if only 'cause once your flesh starts to go, you just can't pull a lot of the same crap you used ta. And we gotta go where we're wanted, Liz. Gotta make a livin' – so to speak – somehow."

"I know, I know." Lizzie sighed, then absently bit her lip. "Though when you think about it, it's pretty strange that we even _have_ a monetary system."

"Eh, people stick with what they know," Bonejangles shrugged. "Nobody likes workin' for free, even if it's just to pass the time. And it's not like we don't got stuff to buy."

"Fair enough," Lizzie allowed, thinking of the Mouldering Grin Café, The Hip Joint, and all the fiddly little shops she'd seen both in Oxford and along the road with the band. People seemed to stick pretty strongly to what they knew Below, and what most of them knew was storefronts and services. Granted, most were a bit twisted compared to their counterparts Upstairs – there was a barber down her street in Oxford that specialized in grafting on whole new scalps, and Chauncey had told her there was a _literal_ second-hand shop in Burtonsville – but the principle was the same. It seemed that not even death could stop the flow of commerce through the British Empire. "I'm just glad it's only one night."

"Me too," Bonejangles said, pushing his hat back. "Give me a few hours on the West End streets any day. Even with everybody givin' me dirty looks for daring to breathe their air."

"You ran into every last snob, didn't you? Once we get Upstairs and find Alice, I'm going to take you on a full circuit of Hyde Park," Lizzie joked. "They won't be able to accuse you of breathing 'their' air then."

"Yeah, I think all the runnin' and screamin' will get in the way."

"That's their problem."

There was a whoop from the other side of the street, and the band turned to see a hoop bouncing its way across the opposite sidewalk. Hard on its heels was a gaggle of blue-skinned children, armed with rotten sticks or lost bones and hollering to their hearts' content. Lizzie watched them chase the clattering circle with a melancholy air. "Poor things. . . ."

"Don't think they'd appreciate you saying that," Chauncey said as a boy in ragged knee-length pants caught up with the flagging hoop and sent it rolling off in a different direction. The little ones turned hard in their attempt to keep up the chase, most crashing into their neighbors and ending up in a wild tangle of limbs. A few brave souls managed to break free and resume the pursuit, laughing and playfully smacking each other. "Given how tough it is Upstairs, they're probably happier dead."

Lizzie shot him a glare. "What a thing to say!"

"True, though, isn't it?"

Damn him, she had no answer for that. Lizzie turned back to the children, who had divided into rough teams and were passing the hoop back and forth across the cobbles. Funny – apart from their blue skin and their torn and tattered clothing, they were practically identical to the boys and girls Lizzie had grown up playing with in Oxford. All that literature she'd read from her mother's club had given her the impression that poor children were an entirely different species altogether from upper-class ones. Forced into labor as soon as they were able to walk – Lorina had quoted some disturbing statistics about boys and girls no older than five scampering beneath a thousand needles and scissors in the clothing factories for cloth scraps, or descending into the darkest depths of the earth to dig coal, all for less money than you could buy bread with – abused and looked down upon by adults of all classes, and barely having a single moment to themselves to just enjoy being young. And that wasn't even considering those unfortunates who were stuffed into orphanages and workhouses, or simply slept on the streets, without even the comforts of parents and siblings to brighten their days. It was the kind of life that seemed like it would suck all the joy out of you before you hit ten. Yet here they were, giggling and romping like her or her sister back when they were small. Lizzie sighed softly. Chauncey was right – those children who found themselves Below probably _were_ happier than their living cousins. No school, no work, no one telling them what to do and when to do it – they could spend every moment they wished in play, without even the tug of fatigue to slow them down. Dulled senses and persistent rot seemed a small price to pay for such freedom.

And yet, Lizzie couldn't help feeling sorry for them. The children were happy and carefree, true, but – they were also stuck as _children_. And if Lizzie remembered anything from her own childhood, it was that there was often nothing more that a child wanted than to be grown up. What happened when a little girl realized that her daydreams of being a bride would never come true? Or a little boy came to understand that he would never follow in his father's trade? They had eternally all the pleasures of childhood, but those of adulthood – sharing intimate moments with a loved one in a quiet room, finding a place to live and making it their own, even just getting to grow taller – were denied them. There was simply so much of _life_ they were going to miss out on.

_Just like me,_ Lizzie thought, eyes dropping to her blue and withered hands. _Frozen in time, forever eighteen, the only change being the slow decay of my body. . .it's depressing if you let yourself think about it. Small wonder that most people don't._

To be fair, she couldn't say she was miserable – there was a lot to like about being Below. The underworld offered freedom from constraint and regulation – you could do or say pretty much whatever you liked, and not be judged for it. Plus, your dreams didn't necessarily have to die with you. Had you wanted to travel the world? No longer any need to book a trip or find a hotel – just start walking and see where your feet took you! Write a novel? Forget about stopping to eat or sleep – scribble your words until your fingers turned to bone, then scratch out a few more. Play rugby? Muscles and fatigue mattered not – find or found a league and throw yourself happily against your fellows in pursuit of the ball. Speaking of which, there was also the fact that with almost everyone so welcoming and friendly from the moment of arrival, you were practically certain to make some dear friends that you might never have met in life (Lizzie glanced up at Bonejangles, smiling). Oh yes, there was quite a lot to like about being dead.

The trouble was, the reverse was also true. The obvious downsides were things like the lack of sun and the steady rot, but there were other, deeper things to miss as well. Lizzie absently touched her middle as she recalled years of daydreaming about the kind of man she'd marry, and the sort of mother she'd be. Now she'd never know. Weddings didn't really exist down here (people like Emily were something of an anomaly – if you came Below single, you were generally content to stay that way), and of course there was no chance of making new life. Even if she adopted one of these azure youngsters, it would be nothing more than a pale imitation of a family – playing dolls with people. (_"I'm no toy,"_ echoed through her skull, forcing her to hide a shudder.) And she still missed being able to watch a flower grow, to taste food that was cooked rather than decayed, and to actually _feel_ when a person touched her. She hadn't yet gotten bored with the Land of the Dead, and she doubted she ever would – if nothing else, there was at least always someone new to meet. But after twelve years, it was easy to understand why everyone considered it more of a waiting room than a true end. She'd wondered for a while why no one Below seemed to mourn much when a friend or family member vanished Up. Now – especially after hearing Emily's story – she thought she had the reason. The Land of the Dead still had sorrows mixed in with its joys – Up surely didn't. Why mourn your loved ones finally finding true peace and happiness? Besides, you knew you'd see them again eventually. And in the meantime, there were plenty of fun things to do in your second life.

And a few not-so-fun things, like nearly getting run over by an overenthusiastic boy going after a hoop. "Oh!" Lizzie jumped backward as the boy just barely caught himself from charging straight into her legs. She glared at him as she brushed off her skirts. "_Please_ watch where you're going if it isn't too much trouble!"

"Sorry – Alice?"

If she'd still bothered to draw breath, it would have caught in her throat right then. Lizzie stared at the child in front of her, frozen with shock. Had he – how could – why would – "I – I beg your pardon?"

The boy squinted at her. "Oh, you're not Alice," he said apologetically. "You got different eyes. You look a lot like her, though." He leaned his head to one side, tapping his stick against his thigh. "Are you that dead sister in that photograph she's got?"

He knew Alice. This little boy (after)living in the middle of the worst part of London knew Alice. A whirlpool of intense emotion swirled into life inside Lizzie – shock at hearing about her sister directly after so long with only third- and fourth-hand accounts; relief at knowing she was alive and out of the asylum; horror over the fact she was now living in Whitechapel; confusion as to _why_ she was now living in Whitechapel – and with strange children no less. Lizzie closed her eyes a moment to steady herself against the flow. _One thing at a time, brain!_ "I – I suppose I – I would be – Elizabeth Liddell," she introduced herself, looking down at the child. Remembering her manners, she waved vaguely in the direction of Bonejangles and his crew, who were observing the scene with interest. "Oh, and these are my friends, the, ah, Bone Boys."

"Farley," the boy returned, sticking out his hand. "Don't have a last name – Mum tossed me out, so I ain't gonna use hers, and I never knew my pa."

"Oh – I'm sorry to hear that. . . ." Lizzie distractedly shook his hand, then crouched down in front of him. "Excuse me for prying, but – you know my sister? Or, well, _knew_ my sister?"

Farley nodded, grinning. "Uh-huh. She used to take care of me at Houndsditch! Mad as a hatter, but she told nice stories. Do you know about Wonderland?"

The memory came back in a rush – an unusually warm May 4th, a seventh birthday party held near the banks of the Isis, a white rabbit doll hugged enthusiastically and dubbed 'Mr. Bunny,' and a sleepy little girl resting her head on her lap and looking up at her with bright eyes: _"Oh, what a curious dream I had, Lizzie! There was a white rabbit with a waistcoat and a watch, much like Mr. Bunny here, and a Hatter and a Hare and a Dormouse having tea – all completely mad of course – and a Caterpillar smoking a hookah, and a very ugly Duchess who scolded me about morals, and a Cheshire Cat that grinned just like the cheeses, and this awful Queen of Hearts who tried to have me beheaded for absolutely no reason!"_ A nostalgic smile spread across Lizzie's face. Oh, to have those happy days back again. . . . "I think I was the first person she ever told about it," she told Farley, allowing herself a bit of pride. "In fact, seeing as I gave her that rabbit, I might be the reason it exists."

"Rabbit? We're not allowed pets at Houndsditch. And nobody would trust her with a rabbit anyway."

"Not a real one, a toy one," Lizzie clarified.

"Toy – ooooh, right, I remember now," Farley said, tapping his temple with his stick. "The one somebody stole when they let her out of the looney bin! She was always complaining about that."

"What?!" Lizzie's hands tightened on her skirt at this fresh indignity. "I gave that to her on her birthday! It was probably the only thing to survive the fire with her! Who steals from a poor orphaned child in an asylum?"

Farley shrugged. "She ain't got it now, that's all I know."

"Hmph." Lizzie glared off down the street. "I found that doll especially for her – waistcot and all. She loved it like her own child – never went anywhere without it. How dare someone take it!" She fixed her frown on Farley. "And having an imaginary world doesn't make her mad as a hatter. It just makes her creative."

"But she was in the madhouse!" Farley protested, pointing in what Lizzie supposed was the general direction of Rutledge. "Ten years! And they only let her out 'cause she started talking to people again – I saw it in the _Illustrated_! She's still barmy. Once shouted at a teapot, said it was running all over the table. And I didn't make it move!" he added, lest someone think he was in the habit of tormenting the insane.

Lizzie winced. Oh dear. She hadn't realized that her sister had genuinely gone mad. Or, rather, she hadn't wanted to consider the possibility. It seemed easier to think of Rutledge as a mistake, a cruel trick played on her by the doctors at Littlemore, rather than a necessity. _Why does all the news I _do_ get about her have to be the kind I don't like?_ "Still, I'm sure she took good care of you," she said, unwilling to give up Alice's defense just yet.

"Yeah, she did," Farley allowed, twirling his stick. "She was grumpy lots, but she cleaned our rooms and made the meals and told us stories." He looked away, rubbing the back of his head. "Uh – not that I remembered much of them when I left."

"Whack on the head scramble your brains before you came down here?" Bonejangles asked, all sympathy. "That's what happened to Ray." The band's piano player (who favored tinted glasses despite not having any eyes left) nodded, drumming his fingers on his skull.

"No, it's – um – I – I don't like to talk about it," the boy whispered, wringing his hands. "None of us from Houndsditch do."

"What is this 'Houndsditch?'" Lizzie asked, curious.

"The Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth," Farley recited, as if reading it off a sign. "You get sent there if you ain't got no parents. Doctor tells everybody that he gives us new ones – new 'purpose,' he likes to say. But. . .uh. . ." He started fidgeting again, refusing to look anyone in the eye. "They – ain't exactly parents."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"He. . .um. . .he makes us forget stuff – uses this key that makes your head go all fuzzy," Farley reluctantly explained, waving his fingers next to his head. "Don't stop 'til you barely know your name. And then, once it's all gone. . . ." He knotted his fingers together around his stick. "I – I got sent to this man, and. . . ."

Lizzie tapped her foot impatiently, running her fingers along the bones of her wrist. "Yes?"

Chauncey, however, seemed to have guessed where Farley's story was going. "Oh _hell_," he growled, tone suggesting his eye sockets would be mere slits if they could move. "Asshole's selling you guys to the highest bidder, ain't he?"

"Selling?!" Lizzie shot back up with a gasp. "What – why would he _sell_ children? Are the factories so desperate for workers that–"

"He's not selling them for factory work, Miss Liddell," Chauncey interrupted, clenching his jaw. "I've lived in places like this, and. . . ."

He trailed off, to her deep annoyance. What was with all these pauses? Why couldn't anyone give her a simple straight answer. "And what?" she demanded, crossing her arms in front of her.

"_Now_ you look like Alice," Farley sniggered. "She glared like that lots. Course, we liked to hide her stuff, so. . . ."

Chauncey glanced at the boy, then turned back to Lizzie. "You're not gonna like it," he warned. "Especially if your sister is caught up in the middle of it." He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

Lizzie would swear she'd figured out how to turn a paler shade of blue. Houndsditch was – no. She couldn't believe it. She _wouldn't_ believe it. "Never!" she yelled, shoving Chauncey away. The skeleton stumbled, a few toe bones breaking off from the force. "My sister would _never_ work in a place like that! You're lying! Both of you are lying! Alice is the sweetest little girl in the world, and she wouldn't _stand_ for it!"

Farley jumped backward, startled by her vehemence. "I – I don't think she knows!" he said, holding up his hands as if afraid Lizzie would turn on him too. "I mean, she has the sessions too, same as us!"

"What?"

"The f-forgetting things! Dr. Bumby treats her too!"

For a split-second, the rest of the world became black void around Lizzie. No. . .it couldn't be. . .it simply couldn't be. . . _"If he ever qualifies, his bedside manner will require improvement!"_ "Dr. Bumby?" she repeated, trying to keep her voice from raising to a hysterical shriek. She didn't quite succeed. "_Angus_ Bumby?!"

"Uh – I _think_ that's what it says on the sign," Farley said slowly, eying Lizzie like she was a volcano about to go off (which was very much what she felt like). "You know him?"

This couldn't be. This just couldn't be. She'd known that the bastard had managed to qualify, but she'd always assumed he was treating unlucky adults in some high-class hospital. The fact that he was allowed to cater to _children_ was – well, it was beyond belief. And he was hurting his charges, wiping their minds, selling them to the highest bidder, throwing them to _predators_ just like himself – _worse_ than himself, _she'd_ been of legal age – and – and her sister was – "But – she should recognize him," she whispered, barely aware that anyone else was listening. "He barged into our house often enough – _she_ was the one to complain to Papa – she probably doesn't know he was the one to burn the place down, but –"

"I told you, he makes us forget things," Farley reminded her, face falling. "Going on and on about 'leaving the past behind' and all that. Maybe he told her to forget him. She said once she didn't want to remember the fire anymore. . . ."

Oh God. Lizzie clutched at her stomach. Was it possible for the dead to be ill? Her darling little sister, trapped with the monster who'd murdered her family. . .considering him a _deliverer_ from her pain. . .helping him to destroy more lives out of ignorance. . .staining her hands and not even realizing –

And then the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. According to this boy and Chauncey, Bumby forced the orphans to forget their lives somehow, then threw them onto the black market. If – if he was making Alice forget _her_ life –

It was too much. It was all too much. Lizzie whirled and bolted down the street, needing to put as much distance between her and this horrible truth as possible. She heard Bonejangles call her name, but she ignored him. She couldn't stand to be there one second longer. She had to run.

She had no idea how long she ran for – without the limits of breathlessness and exhaustion, there was no way to mark the time. But eventually she found herself facing a dead end in some mold-heavy alley. Unable to go further, she instead collapsed to the ground, sobbing so hard she was surprised her eyes didn't pop from their sockets. All this time. . .all this time she'd been holding onto the hope that her sister had started a new life for herself. That after her stint in Rutledge (which was supposed to have been brief, not _ten bloody years_), she was well and happy again, with a family that cared for her. That she had a future worth looking forward to. And instead. . . . "Why?" she demanded of the eternal twilight. "Why do this to us? Why take everything away from me and my family and give it all to _him_? He doesn't deserve it! Where's the justice everyone tells me is supposed to exist? Where's the balancing of the books I always heard about from Reverend Dodgson and his ilk?" She pushed herself back to her feet, teeth gritted as the tears continued streaming down her cheeks. "Tell me what's the point, God! _Answer me_!"

"Can tell you from experience God don't like talkin' to us common folk."

Lizzie spun as a shadow fell across the alley. Bonejangles was standing just behind her, hat in his hands. "Started yellin' lots of the same when I was on my way out," he continued, turning the bowler around and around. "Couple of the religious folk afterward told me that 'He works in mysterious ways' and all that bull. Me, I think it's more random shit happens and 'God' ain't got nothin' to do with it."

". . .You're blasphemous," Lizzie said, struggling to compose herself.

"No lightning yet, so I ain't gonna worry about it." He sighed and looked away. "Look, I know you probably want to be alone – I just couldn't let you run off without knowing where you were. Even dead, Whitechapel's not a place where you wanna get lost. Never forgive myself if somethin' happened to you on my watch, especially – after all that rottenness. . . ." He scratched the back of his skull. "If you want me to skedaddle now–"

Oh, to hell with composure – Lizzie flung herself at him, the tears starting anew. Bonejangles went stiff briefly, then returned the embrace, resting his jaw on top of her head. "No, it's all right, stay. . .oh Sam," she choked out. "I don't – she doesn't – he's got her, and I just know he's going to hurt her too–"

"I know," Bonejangles whispered, sounding sick to his nonexistent stomach. "I'm so sorry, Liz. I was hopin' for a better ending too."

Lizzie nodded against his spine. "She was supposed to be happy," she whimpered, squeezing up her eyes in a feeble attempt to control the flood pouring from her eyes. "She was supposed to have gotten back on her feet – telling the world her stories, owning five cats and a dog, and just – being the same sweet, kind, imaginative young thing I grew up with. And now I learn she's living in this slop, innocence lost and heart hard, helping the same monster who destroyed her entire family destroy others. . .all while getting her own mind torn to pieces. . . ." Unwillingly, her mind conjured up an image of Alice dressed in a tight-laced corset and ragged skirt, standing on some grimy street corner, a cigarette dangling from her lips, her eyes dull and blank. . . . God, she wanted to retch, she really did. "And – and what if – she looks like _me_, Sam! What if he decides he – he _fancies_ her and–" She struck a weak blow against Bonejangles's ribcage. "I don't want her to go through what I went through! I don't want her to have those memories! I won't _stand_ for it!" She looked up at him, wiping her eyes to clear her vision. "Maybe you've got to make a living, but _I've_ got to get up there and warn her! Before it's too late! There _must_ be a faster way of getting to your friend! Please, Sam!"

Bonejangles nodded, putting his hat back on his head and tilting it over one eye socket to indicate he meant business. "Sure thing, Liz. Fast carriage or two should do the trick. It'll still take a while, but I think we can shave off at least a few days – closer to a week or so if we're lucky and get a good driver."

"And your band will understand?"

"Hell yes – they're not any happier about this than we are, trust me. You know how Chauncey knew what Farley was talking about? His uncle got wrapped up in that shit for a couple of months. Did it to put the bread on the table, but Chauncey never forgave him, and I don't blame him. And Elder Gutknecht. . .well, once he gets wind of this, we might get him to ignore that damned stupid 'dead can't harm the living' rule." He patted her back. "Don't worry, Liz. We'll get your sister out of there. Cross my heart – uh, if I had one."

That finally got her to smile. "Thank you." Lizzie rested her head against his breastbone. She hadn't realized before now just how comforting his arms could be. "You're the best friend a girl could ask for."

"Besides another girl?"

He really did have a talent for making people laugh in the darkest situations, didn't he? "Perhaps," Lizzie said with a watery snicker. "Regardless – I've never been gladder we ran into each other that day in the park. And that you were willing to put up with me being so cold."

"Hey, you had good reason not to think much of me at first," Bonejangles told her, pushing his hat back again. "I'm just happy you gave me a chance. I like you a lot, Liz."

"I like you too. You know how often I wish we could have met while we were alive?"

"Probably as often as I do – though I'm pretty sure there would have been a way bigger age gap," Bonejangles added, holding his hands out for emphasis.

"Even so – it would have been great to know the living you." Lizzie ran her hands along his spine. "You'd be softer to hug, for one thing."

Bonejangles chuckled softly. "Yeah, well, that's life for you. Or death. Either one." He squeezed her. "So – wanna go back to the Boys so we can give them the news? Chauncey's gonna be on both our asses if we just disappear. And I think you scared the crap out of that poor kid."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but. . . ." Lizzie pressed her head into his sternum again. "In a minute. I'm not quite ready yet."

Bonejangles nodded, resting his chin atop her head. "Take your time."


End file.
